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TALES OF BOLIVAR’S CHILDREN 



TALES OF BOLIVAR’S 
CHILDREN 


EDWARD Ef CHASE 

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KENNEBEC JOURNAL COMPANY 
AUGUSTA, MAINE 

NINETEEN HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN 



Copyright, 1^14 
By Edward E» Chase 


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JAN 20 1915 

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INTRODUCTORY 

Believing that the time has come when col- 
lege traditions must become recorded in order 
that they may be preserved for the generations 
to come, although knowing that I am not so well 
fitted for the performance of this duty to my 
Alma Mater as another may be, yet I have even 
in my day noticed the decline of some of the old 
traditions of the campus; and I have gathered 
here a few odds and ends, tales of campus life 
of all times, in order to pave the way for a larger 
and better book that is to come — from the pen 
of another. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 


Page 

The Conception op Bolivar .... 9 

A Matter op Depinition 25 

The Story op Mr. Spear’s Pig ... 35 

Ideal Conditions 44 

The Best He Had 55 

The Reward op Valor 64 

A Corpseless Funeral 75 

Mike Mahoney’s Reporm Movement . 83 

The Way to Lose 91 

Fractional Fabrication 98 

Who’s a Piker? iii 






THE CONCEPTION OF BOLIVAR 


We were standing on the station platform at 
Brunswick. It had been about an hour since 
Bowdoin had got through walloping us to the 
tune of 29 to o, and the Maine bunch was about 
as happy as a condemned criminal. Jim Fowler 
and I were strolling down the platform, engaged 
in playing the game over again in language not 
recognized as English or foreign, when we met 
a man who stopped to talk. From his expression 
I knew he was a Maine man. “ Hard luck, 
boys ! ” he said. 

“You’re right. D’you come down for 

the game?” asked Jim. 

“My name’s Seldon, ’03,” he replied. “I’m 
going back to Boston on the next train. Hoped 
the boys could do them up today ; but we may 
have better luck next year.” 

The three of us walked along to where the 
resurrected Bolivar stood, majestic in his lone- 
liness, leaning against a baggage truck. Seldon 
began to laugh. We looked at him curiously 
as he walked over and caressed the tin mascot, 


lO 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


whose history no one then in college was able 
to relate. We had heard rumors of the strange 
vicissitudes of the elephant's career as a Maine 
emblem, but the real facts had become lost in 
ten years' obscurity. 

“Did they have Bolivar at Maine in your time, 
Seldon?" I asked. 

- “Did we have him? Why, I was the one 
who started him going," laughed the old grad. 
“I kept track of the old brute up to a few years 
ago, but I thought he was lost for good." 

Jim Fowler looked at his watch. “You've 
got twenty minutes before train time," he sug- 
gested. 

Seldon looked astonished. “Why, don't you 
know the story of old Bolivar? I thought every- 
one knew that. But, as you say. I've just about 
enough time to tell you. Let's go over and sit 
down." 

We seated ourselves on the baggage truck 
behind the elephant and Seldon began. 

“I was born possessed of a criminal instinct 
and a sense of originality. College developed 
the former trait, and my mania to do something 
entirely original got me into, a good deal of 
trouble. In those days the man who wanted to 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


II 


be known as a live one had to keep in hot water 
with the authorities most of the time. Of course 
I wanted to become famous with the bunch. So 
early in my college career I decided that it was 
up to me to kill somebody or steal something. 
My young and unhardened heart revolted at the 
idea of murder, and robbery was the only field 
left in my dash for fame. But it was so com- 
mon to steal that I was ashamed to pull off any- 
thing like that unless I could go into it big. 

“Now nine times out of ten, to a man who 
thinks of the word hig as a general term, auto- 
suggestion will bring the word elephant. To 
steal an elephant appealed to my sense of origi- 
nality, and I determined that all my future efforts 
should be toward this end. Elephants were not 
plentiful in Penobscot County at this time in the 
year and I was reconciled to a long wait until 
circus day in June. Then I was going to steal 
the biggest one in the whole tent. 

“But it was a long wait, and in the meantime 
I was becoming known as just an ordinary sort 
of a chap. My own fraternity began to be sorry 
that they had pledged such a dead-head. Nat- 
urally I grew desperate. I prayed for an ele- 
phant every night. In October I would have 


12 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


been content with a hippo or a rhinoceros. And 
when one night one of the boys said that there 
was an elephant down on the Veazie road above 
Bangor, I never stopped to inquire as to the 
nature of the beast nor his approximate where- 
abouts. I hunted up Spike Stewart and Razoo 
Bunker and we three took the next car to Veazie. 
We had fifty feet of rope, an axe, a sledge ham- 
mer, and a pitchfork. The axe was the only 
thing we needed, as it happened. 

“In Veazie we made inquiries about the wan- 
dering elephant. I guess they thought we were 
crazy, for I heard one man call up the Insane 
Hospital to ask if any patients were missing. 
No one had seen any elephants in Veazie. We 
walked over to School Street, divided up the 
weapons, and scattered to search the country. 
Razoo took the axe. Spike the pitchfork, and I 
the sledge hammer. We left the rope in the 
waiting-room. I lugged the hammer — sixteen 
pounds it weighed when we stole it — until the 
weight had increased to about a ton. Then, the 
river being handy, I hove it in. I knew it would 
sink before I threw it. 

“After about an hour I heard a far-off yell 
and beat it in that direction. Razoo caught me 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 1 3 

on the road just above the cemetery. 'Spike’s 
right along here,’ he panted. And just then a 
low whistle from the roadside stopped us. 

"Flat on his stomach behind a tree lay Spike. 
'Down, fellers ! Down !’ he hissed, and we 
crawled to his side in the wet grass, 

" 'Where’s that sledge hammer ?’ asked Spike. 

" 'Where’s the elephant ?’ I countered. 

"Stealthily Spike wriggled over to one side 
of the tree and pointed toward a clump of bushes. 
Sighting along his finger, I beheld a dark hulk 
silhouetted against the leafless transparency of 
the trees. It was either an elephant or a house 
shaped like an elephant. I never knew that live 
animals grew so big. Maybe they don’t. On 
the side of this beast was painted in large white 
letters the name of a Bangor clothing company. 
It occurred to me that the people wouldn’t stand 
for that kind of advertising very long. Our 
neighbors at home used to get mad whenever 
our pigs got loose, and all the pigs we ever owned 
wouldn’t make that monster a square meal. 

" 'Is he tied ?’ I asked Spike in a whisper. 

" 'He hasn’t moved since I first saw him. I 
guess he’s asleep. They say that elephants sleep 
standing up. Now he’s right close to those 


14 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


bushes. You sneak round and come in easy 
through the bushes. When you get close enough, 
let him have that sledge hammer between the 
eyes.’ 

“ ‘I left the hammer over yonder,’ I objected, 
waving my hand toward the indefinite east. 

“ ‘Take the axe,’ Razoo generously offered. 

“‘You pair of fools!’ I burst out, for- 

getting the slumbering elephant. ‘Do you think 
for a minute that I’m going to sneak up on that 
poor elephant and hit him between the eyes 
with an axe? The folks expect me home for 
Thanksgiving dinner. Besides, if I did knock 
him down and got away in time to keep from 
being squashed, how the devil would you go to 
work to get him to Orono? The three of us 
couldn’t lift his tail off the ground. And I never 
yet hit a man or a beast when he wasn’t looking, 
anyway.’ 

“ ‘Now,’ I continued, ‘the way to get him is 
like this. We’ll go back to School Street and 
get that rope. Then you two crawl up and slip 
a noose round one of his front legs. While 
you’re doing that. I’ll go down the line and hail 
a car. The motorman on the next car is a good 
sport and he’ll help us out. Bring the end of 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


15 


the rope up to the track and we'll hitch it into 
the coupling ring. When the car starts the ele- 
phant will wake up and follow.' 

“ ‘Fine !' complimented Razoo, sarcastically. 
‘You're a genius, kid. Think up another one 
where you do the dirty work.' 

“ ‘Aw, show a little nerve !' I got up, walked 
to the road, and picked up a handful of stones. 
At least I could scare the elephant out of that 
frightfully tremendous and immobile pose. It 
didn't seem possible to miss such a target at fifty 
feet, but I did. Spike and Razoo were halfway 
up the tree when I threw the second rock, calling 
me every name they could lay their tongues to. 

“On the fourth try I got him fair. But in- 
stead of the dull thud of a stone hitting flesh, 
followed by a roar and an uplifted trunk as I 
expected, the elephant stood as unconcerned as 
the big pyramid, and the Bang that echoed across 
the fields sounded for all the world like a stone 
striking a tin pan. I was glad that the two 
other ginks were up the tree and not in a posi- 
tion to laugh. 

“I threw another stone to make sure, and got 
the same kind of a noise. Then I boldly ap- 
proached the monstrous elephant. The others 


1 6 TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 

came down out the tree and followed. It was 
a tin elephant all right. I fell down under the 
feet of the fearsome beast and laughed until the 
tears came, with Spike and Razoo tangled up 
on top of me. When we got sobered down so 
that we could sit up, one of us would rap on 
the side of the tin beast and off we would go 
again. I never saw a fellow have hysterics until 
Razoo Bunker did that night. 

‘‘We rolled Razoo in a puddle until he was 
able to stand up. Then we chopped the elephant 
loose with the axe, stole the Veazie hand-car, 
loaded on the elephant, and pumped through to 
Webster. 

“ ‘What’ll we do with the brute ?’ asked Spike, 
as we pulled — or pushed — ourselves and cargo 
over the Webster bridge. 

“ ‘Paint him blue and white, and take him to 
the game Saturday as a mascot.’ It was my 
suggestion, and without doubt the best thing I 
ever said. And we did it. 

“That Saturday afternoon, when the bleachers 
had filled and the teams had just come on the 
field, we three carried the elephant, painted light 
blue with white trimmings, out in front of the 
Maine cheering section. The fellows fell in love 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 1 7 

with him at first sight. They cheered the ele- 
phant, they cheered us — and it isn’t often that 
three insignificant freshmen are cheered like 
that — and they altogether went mad over that 
new mascot. The Maine team looked over and 
saw the cause of the uproar. They were as 
tickled as the rest of the crowd. 

‘‘‘What’s his name, Seldon?’ shouted some 
one. I turned to face the cheering section, 
placing my hand affectionately on the elephant’s 
trunk. ^Bolivar!' I shouted. And so he got his 
name. 

“ ‘Three for Bolivar !’ howled the cheer-leader. 
‘Make it good ! Come into it for Bolivar !’ And 
they sure did. I did pretty well in college, and 
I’ve made good since I graduated; but I never 
felt so proud as I did that minute. 

“We carried the new mascot down behind the 
goal posts that the Maine team was rushing 
for. Maine took the kick to the forty-yard line. 
‘Now, boys!’ yelled the quarterback. ‘Let’s go 
right down and see Bolivar. Guards back ! 
5-18-6!’ And they drove that tandem play 
through for twelve yards. ‘Signals! 12-23-2!’ 
And the right halfback shot around left end for 
ten more. Six downs it took to make the first 


1 8 TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 

touchdown. The rest of the game was just the 
same. Maine rushed them off their feet and 
piled up the biggest score of the season. Three 
of us carried the elephant in the gate, the whole 
college carried Bolivar out. 

“Now of course it's hard to hide an elephant, 
and after that football game no one wanted to 
hide him. We took Bolivar and nailed him up 
over the Maine bleachers. He got a lot of noto- 
riety during the next week, and the Bangor 
clothing company that really owned him found 
out very quickly just where their advertisement 
had gone. It happened to be one of those firms 
that never give student's discount if they can 
squeal out of it, and the sympathy that the stu- 
dents felt for this clothing company was of the 
reverse-English variety. The manager swore 
that he'd get that elephant if he had to arrest 
the whole college. Every fellow in said college 
swore that he'd shoot without the slightest com- 
punction any person who laid the weight of a 
finger on Bolivar with sinister designs. It 
looked as if it would take some classy diplomacy 
to avoid a war. 

“Funny how news travels, isn't it? We had 
twenty-four hours' notice that the manager of 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


19 


this clothing firm had enlisted the aid of the 
police and was coming on the campus the next 
day to seize his elephant. Now we’d just as 
soon have killed that manager as not; but the 
Bangor police always used the boys pretty well, 
and we didn’t want to kill the policeman. And 
right here diplomacy came into play. 

*‘That night we took Bolivar down from the 
bleachers, laid him on some boards nailed to- 
gether, traced an outline around the tin elephant, 
and sawed out a new wooden elephant exactly 
the same size. The imitation Bolivar was nailed 
in place of the real one, and the tin mascot was 
sunk in the river with a buoy to mark the spot. 
Then we painted the wooden substitute as Boli- 
var was painted. 

‘‘The manager and his policeman appeared on 
schedule time. A few of us happened to be on 
the field when they came in. ‘That’s the one!’ 
we heard him exclaim. He strode rapidly across 
the field, the policeman following at a discreet 
distance. We chased along to see the fun. The 
manager climbed up and took a good look at 
the wooden elephant. He saw in a minute what 
he was up against, for the paint wasn’t dry on 
the wood. The reddest and maddest man I ever 


20 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


saw, he came down from the bleachers and took 
the next car for Bangor. He had sense enough 
not to try to search for the tin elephant. 

“The next Saturday we played Bates. The 
fellows didn’t pay much attention to the wooden 
elephant that stood above them. But just be- 
fore the whistle blew I stood up in my seat in 
the top row and rapped out a tune on tin just 
to show the boys that Bolivar was back. And 
how that bunch did howl! We trimmed Bates 
to a standstill and Bolivar got his share of the 
credit. The manager and the policeman came 
up on Sunday and found the same old wooden 
elephant. 

“The Bangor clothing company got mad. 
Now it never got me anything to get mad, and 
I never believed in it as a business. They de- 
cided to get that elephant back, money no 
object. Being mad, they forgot that God gave 
them heads to reason with, and they sent three 
detectives to find the elephant. 

“These detectives had about as much idea of 
inductive reasoning as a skunk had of immor- 
tality. They started to hunt for that elephant 
in the same way that a boy will start to hunt 
for the saw when his father wants him to saw 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


21 


wood. It sure looked as if they didn’t want to 
find the beast. Maybe they didn’t ; for day 
wages are the custom in the detective business, 
I believe. The three of them registered as stu- 
dents in the college and started a systematic 
search of all the college buildings. They came 
prying around the frat. houses on any excuse 
to get in and they kept their eyes and ears open 
for clues while they were there. We caught on 
to their business in about two days and made life 
miserable for them. If a bunch was standing 
together and one of the detectives sneaked up, 
the talk was sure to be about elephants. We 
kept that word ringing in their ears all the time 
they were around, and they were welcome to 
make as much out of the conversation as they 
could. 

“When the word was passed around the frat. 
that a detective was in the house, it was the 
invariable custom for someone upstairs to rush 
out into the hall and shout for all the world to 
hear : 

“ ‘Who will carry this message ?’ 

“And from the ground floor would come the 
volunteer’s answer: T will!’ 

“ ‘And who the devil are you ?’ 


22 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


“ ‘Hockshaw!’ 

“ ‘What ! The great detective ?’ 

“And up from the lower floor would come the 
drawling, scornful answer: ‘H — , naow!’ 

“Well, Bolivar watched us trim Colby and 
Bowdoin, and he saw the championship cele- 
bration in Bangor. But some of us got mislaid 
in Bangor that night, and the bunch went off and 
left Bolivar at the Webster station. A crowd 
of muckers took him, and we never found him 
until the next football season. We dug him out 
of an ash-heap, but a new coat of paint put him 
in good shape. He’s seen some merry times in 
his history, old Bolivar has. And here he is 
back at the same old stand. That’s my train 
whistling now. Let’s walk up the platform.” 

The Maine bunch had gone uptown for supper 
and there were only a few left at the station. 
Bowdoin was out celebrating her victory. The 
parade came upstreet and turned on to the plat- 
form. We stood aside to let them pass. Jim 
and I were telling Seldon about the track and 
baseball prospects, when we heard a cheer and 
turned to see the Bowdoin parade coming back. 
They had Bolivar. 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


23 


I never saw anything start so quick. There 
weren’t Maine men enough there then to clean 
out a baroom. But at one yell of “Maine men 
this way,” they came from nowhere like flies to 
a sugar barrel. I saw in the papers next day 
that Bowdoin captured the Maine elephant and 
paraded him all over town. It’s funny that I 
didn’t notice it when I was right there to see 
them when they did. Newspapers get next to 
lots of stuff that none of the rest of us ever see. 

Anyway, I know that they had just got to 
the end of the platform when Seldon, Jim Fowler 
and I kicked in. We just naturally jumped up 
and came down on top of Bolivar. A couple of 
Maine freshmen took a hand. We five got the 
elephant flat on the platform and stood on him, 
holding the fort and hollering for reserves. 
Bowdoin tried to heave us off, but we stuck 
pretty good. One fellow grabbed my leg and 
I kicked him in the jaw. I went down once and 
a big guy took hold to lift me clear. I couldn’t 
kick him, so I grabbed his ear and hung on until 
Seldon got time to punch him in the neck. It 
was a merry scrap while it lasted, but it was of 
lamentably short duration. When the Maine 
bunch really arrived you couldn’t see a Bowdoin 


24 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


man around who dared to admit that he was 
such. We carried Bolivar back to the same 
place and withdrew, hoping that the Bowdoin 
parade would need him again. Evidently they 
didn’t, for they didn’t come. 

We said goodby to Seldon. He just caught 
his train as it was pulling out, and he stopped on 
the rear platform to put his wardrobe in order. 
“Hang on to Bolivar, boys,” he shouted back. 
And he was still trying to fasten his collar when 
the train went out of sight. 


A MATTER OF DEFINITION 


I WANDERED into my room and dropped lazily 
pn the couch. The sophomores had just been 
giving the freshmen a little lesson in ethics, 
manners and morals, effected in as impressive a 
manner as was consistent with the enjoyment 
of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness from 
|the freshman standpoint. We had seen “cuckoo 
clocks'’ and “penny races,” also other ingenious 
inventions of the devil, devised by some past 
Knight of the Inquisition, 

“who thought it shame 
And sin to give his work a name,” 

in the words of Sir Walter. We had heard that 
exquisite species of Italian virtuosi which is pro- 
duced when ten badly scared freshmen lift their 
young voices in song, rendering a laundry slip 
from beginning to end. Yankee Doodle was the 
tune, and you will never appreciate what this 
sounds like until you hear it. 


‘And neckties, cuffs and handkerchiefs. 
And trousers, shirts and drawers,” 


26 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


pealed the youthful voices in chorus. It was too 
much for my blood and I had to go somewhere 
and laugh. A fraternity razoo is a serious occa- 
sion, and he is base indeed who would make the 
occasion one for levity and laughter. In order 
that my merriment might not detract from the 
true worth of the lesson that the freshmen were 
supposed to be learning, I left the domain of 
General Razoo, where all military decrees are 
enforced by the sword, represented in this case 
by a stout two-handed “paddle.” 

“How are they making it downstairs?” asked 
Freddy Saunders, without looking up from his 
book. Freddy was our grind and he never 
stopped studying for anything short of a cham- 
pionship celebration. Wisie Hackett, Mike Ma- 
honey and I were not often taken that way, so 
Freddy did the studying for the whole room. 
That was fair enough, for we three represented 
the room in all other lines of college life. The 
only trouble with this arrangement was that 
Freddy was taking Electrical, while Mike, Wisie 
and I were staggering under the burden of a 
major in Economics. We weren’t in a single 
class with him, so you can see that Freddy’s plug- 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 27 

ging never got us much on the rank cards. But 
in the amount of studying he sure did enough 
for the whole four of us. 

“Freddy," said I, “believe me, it's a corker. 
Put up that everlasting book and go down to 
watch the performance. It's by far the best 
razoo since our freshman year." 

“The old times were the times," he sighed. 
He placed his book carefully in the rack, for 
neatness was Freddy's worst fault. His desk 
and mine had Nature's contrast beat a lap and 
a half. “How's our freshman taking it?" he 
asked. 

“Having reference to Michael Sanderson Ma- 
honey, Junior? He's a star, Freddy. The sophs 
haven't made him bat an eye yet. This ought to 
be Mike now," as a footstep sounded in the hall. 

Enter Freshman Mahoney, looking rather 
weary and decidedly despondent. He cast one 
longing glance at the couch, whereupon I very 
obligingly moved to exactly the middle of said 
piece of furniture. For freshmen receive very 
little sympathy from upper-classmen. 

“Art thou ill at ease with the world, O son of 
the Golden Gate?" demanded Freddy. A snort 
was the answer. 


28 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


‘‘Michael dearest,” I reprimanded him. “Even 
in his hours of sorest affliction a freshman must 
.observe a certain degree of deference to his 
seniors, and the first requisite of such deference 
is promptness in answering all questions, how- 
,ever foolish such questions may be.” 

Mike grinned foolishly. “Am I ill at ease 
with the world, you ask? Why, this is my hap- 
piest moment. Hitherto I have lived only for 
this. And now I would gladly die, for life 
surely has no greater pleasures in store for me 
than my recent experiences have afforded.” And 
he caressed his injured members and parts. “Tell 
me! How often do they have these razoos, and 
are they all as bad as this?” 

Upon such extreme ignorance we gazed with 
appropriate pity. “You tell him, Freddy,” said 
I ; and the old grind began. 

“Poor abused child of an afflicted race, listen 
now to the tale that truth and tradition records. 
Hazing is now abolished at this university. 
Didn’t you sign a pledge promising to take part 
in no hazing while a student here?” 

Mike shook his head. “Ted signed all my 
cards and things.” 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


29 


Freddy laughed and we joined in, for there 
was some humor in the situation. “Did you sign 
Mike’s pledge, Ted?” he demanded of me. 

“My Lord,” I replied in defense. “Freddy, 
you know well enough that no one ever looks at 
half the stuff he signs when he registers, least 
^of all understands it. I’ve registered here three 
times now, and I can’t go it alone yet. If any- 
body signed a card pledging Mike not to haze, 
I did. Mike didn’t sign anything but a forty- 
dollar check. What makes the odds who signed 
it anyway?” 

“The faculty may not see it your way,” he 
returned. “They’ll hold up your diploma on a 
charge of forgery if they find out. But we 
must tell our room-mate what hazing really is. 
Your experience of tonight, dear child, may be 
classed as hazing only in so far as an April 
shower may be classed as a cloudburst. Haz- 
ing — speaking generally — is where a bunch of 
sophomores nearly kill you and leave you for 
dead. If you die on the spot, you can justly 
claim that you’ve really been hazed. If you 
crawl home and die there, you have only been 
razooed. But if you get home and survive to 
become a better and a wiser freshman, then you 


30 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


have received merely an object lesson to teach 
you in what paths to guide your future steps. 
The economic object of real hazing is to decrease 
the surplus population and to eliminate the pro- 
letariat. I don’t know if Malthus mentions this 
as a means to that end, but if he didn’t he never 
went to college. The highest degree of hazing 
is only resorted to in extreme cases, as where a 
freshman speaks to a co-ed. Razooing is the 
punishment for smoking a pipe out of doors or 
for wearing a derby on week-days, while an 
object lesson is applied to all cases just on gen- 
eral principles. 

“Mike, you may well be devoutly thankful if 
during your first year you are never dropped in 
the river through a hole cut in the ice in order 
to cool your ardent spirits. Such things have 
happened, notably in the case of Mr. Goss of 
Green’s Landing. But immersion in ice water 
isn’t so bad as being dropped down an elevator 
well; and that too has occurred in the none too 
distant past. My son, you must be very careful, 
for the superlative degree of careful isn’t near 
careful enough. 

“And you must keep clearly in mind the defi- 
nitions which I have given of the different de- 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


31 


grees of hazing. To be able to define concisely 
and correctly is a great thing, and the lack of 
this ability has reflected upon the history of the 
world. If you are versed in ancient philosophy 
you may remember that Plato took it upon him- 
self to define a man. ‘A man is a two-legged 
animal without feathers,' he declared, and the 
Athenians wondered at this marvel of correct- 
ness. But Diogenes, a contemporary of Plato's, 
seems to have been a raiser of poultry besides 
being a philosopher. So he killed a chicken, 
pulled out all the feathers, and went to hold his 
class in the market-place. ‘Here is Plato's man !' 
he said, and poor Plato had to shift his definition. 

“It was the ignorance of this art of good and 
workable definition in a certain worthy man who 
is no longer with us that precipitated the student 
strike here a few years ago. This man, when 
asked to state the true significance of hazing as 
the faculty understood the term, declared it to 
be that condition of affairs which existed when 
freshmen were run through the gauntlet, struck 
with paddles, and thrown in the river. On the 
strength of this definition the sophomores routed 
the freshmen out one night and gave them a 
party in which hazing played no part. 


32 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


“The freshmen didn’t run the gauntlet; they 
crept between the sophomores’ legs on their 
hands and knees. Not one sophomore had a 
paddle; they used their bare hands skilfully ap- 
plied in the right place. None of the freshmen 
were thrown in the river; instead of this crude, 
forbidden method, the sophomores took a two- 
hundred-foot rope, placed a half-hitch around 
each ankle, and then marched the whole entering 
class in lock step through a stream of water pro- 
pelled from the nozzle of a fire-hose by a pressure 
of eighty pounds to the square inch. Of course 
none of this was hazing as it had been explained 
to them, though perhaps they did take advantage 
of a slight technicality. But’s it perfectly proper 
in law, religion and philosophy to crawl through 
a small hole in case you have to. Why not in 
hazing then? 

“Well, the faculty found out about the party. 
Somehow they seemed to think that it was a 
violation of the rule after all; so they suspended 
ten of the sophomores for a year. Of course 
the ten most inoffensive men in the class were 
the ones elected to this compulsory vacation. 
Four of the ten had a perfect alibi, but such a 
defense was not admitted as evidence at the 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


33 


faculty tribunal. For instance, there was Tom 
Joy, who was with a girl in Bangor when the 
party took place. The girl and her whole fam- 
ily offered to go before the committee to prove 
Tom’s alibi; but Tom swore that ‘he wouldn’t 
submit a respectable family to the humiliation of 
going before such an ignorant bunch of grapes.’ 
He was canned with the rest. Two others were 
varsity football men who were in bed when the 
thing took place; but for any one to be in bed 
that night was suspicious in itself, so this fact 
didn’t save even them. The other four men who 
were fired were no doubt ‘among those present’; 
but they were all fellows who wouldn’t dare to 
milk a cow for fear she’d kick, much less touch 
a poor freshman who might hit back. But the 
omniscient professors picked the right bunch if 
they wanted to start things. Things started 
pronto. 

“The whole student body, excepting the foot- 
ball squad, promptly went out on strike. Two 
students were a big class that week, and the foot- 
ball men had a jolly time attending recitations. 
The co-eds struck too, of some use for once in 
their lives. The faculty entertained student com- 
mittees every day, hoping to fix things up so as 


34 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


to have the dear bright boys back in their class- 
rooms where the professors could take revenge 
at their leisure. Lots of the boys drew out their 
tuition and had a high old time spending it in 
those five days. It made it a bit hard to pay 
again at the end of the semester, but it was a 
good time while it lasted. There were parades 
and mass-meetings and all sorts of demonstra- 
tions. 

“It pleased the faculty to call the final adjust- 
ment a compromise. Perhaps one could think of 
a better word, but this one will answer the pur- 
pose and save the professors. The ten sopho- 
mores came back — under censure for a year, 
but in college none the less. Who cares any- 
thing about probation and censure except an ath- 
lete? In the end both sides claimed the victory, 
which is a good place to leave it. But we don’t 
have real hazing any more now — only object 
lessons. For General Razoo has given up com- 
mand to Corporal Punishment.” 


THE STORY OF MR. SPEAR’S PIG 


Initiation was over. Twelve freshmen had 
been instructed in the ritualistic mysteries of Pi 
Eta Mu, and now they sat among us as brothers^ 
their new pins shining on their shirts. A bunch 
of alumni had come back to see the initiation. 
Now that the ceremonies were over they had got 
together around the fireplace and were swapping 
reminiscences. The freshmen clustered around 
them listening to the tales of past achievements 
and escapades, while the upperclassmen mingled 
with the fire-lit circle, hearing for the twentieth 
time the stories of the old regime which never 
fail to interest or amuse, according to the nature 
of the story. 

The alumni always criticize when they come 
around, and this occasion was no exception. 
“These initiations are on the blink,” declared 
Gordon Stevens, ’98. “There’s no fun in com- 
ing back except to meet the old bunch again. 
Why, you guys handle the freshmen like you 
would a sealed package marked ‘Dynamite.’ It 
was fun to watch an initiation in the old days.” 


36 TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 

‘‘But not much fun for the freshmen, I fancy,” 
said Garry Fisher. “I wouldn’t — ” 

“Stevie,” cut in Wisie Hackett. “Will you 
please put the cover on that old-time stuff? To 
hear you old married men talk one would think 
that the college was going to the dogs on a 
toboggan. Football has deteriorated, baseball 
has become a farce, and now initiations are too 
gentle to suit you. College spirit is dead, you 
say. The cheering at the games is no good, and 
the students are all too young to be in college 
anyway. You can’t say much about track ath- 
letics because none of the old records are stand- 
ing now; but you stand back and knock every- 
thing that shows a head above water, even going 
so far as to say that the old Maine Y. M. C. A. 
was better than ours. Yet somehow the college 
is still here standing firmly amid this downfall 
and debris of the old standards. In my opinion 
these stories are all lies which you married men 
make up to scare your wives into thinking that 
you were very devils of fellows when you were 
young.” And several of the alumni stirred un- 
comfortably. 

“Wisie’s right,” I put in. “We’re all tired of 
discussions on the relative merits of Maine past 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 37 

and Maine present. But you fellows aren’t with 
us every day, and we like to hear the old stories. 
Stevie, can’t you tell us a new one — one we 
never heard before? Maybe you were going to 
when they interrupted you.” 

“I did have one in mind,” returned Stevens. 
‘‘It’s about an initiation partly, but the best part 
isn’t. It’s rather long, and maybe you fellows 
want to go to bed.” A chorus of negations rose 
from the circle, and he began. 

“It was back in ’96 when I was a sopho- 
more. Funny how the best times always come 
in the second year. Initiation was a serious 
matter then and we used to spend days getting 
ready for it. Today you fellows try to scare the 
freshmen by telling about the goat; but we used 
to have a real goat then or else some good sub- 
stitute. That year the Delta Gammas and the 
Sigma Eps had their initiations the same week, 
and the Sigma Eps got hold of the regular goat 
first. Of course this put the Delta Gammas in 
a hole, for they had to have some species of live 
stock; so some of their adventurous spirits went 
up the road and stole a pig from an individual 
named Spear. They took the pig out on the 
cinder track, and each of the candidates did a 


38 TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 

fast quarter riding on that gallant steed. It 
made quite a bit of noise, and one of the sopho- 
mores in Oak Hall sneaked down to see what 
was going on in the athletic field. He watched 
the proceedings from afar until the Delta Gam- 
mas went away to other climes, leaving the pig 
tied to the grandstand to await their return. 

“Well, this sophomore — his name was Toad 
Johnson — promptly sounded the tocsin for a 
hurry-up call, and within five minutes two-thirds 
of the class were out there holding a council of 
war over His Hoggish Majesty, all making sug- 
gestions as to the best use to which the pig could 
be put. Someone suggested turning him loose 
on top of Coburn Hall. Another favored put- 
ting him in Prexy’s wood-shed. But one young 
non-Hebrew gentleman who had a taste for pork 
made the nomination that stampeded the con- 
vention. ‘Let’s have a barbecue,’ he proposed. 

“Of course a suggestion like that took right 
off the reel. A self-appointed committee started 
for down-town to get the necessary implements 
for camp cooking, and some joyful spirits went 
to find a keg of beer. I have no reason to doubt 
that both these committees were successful in 
their efforts. Up the railroad track we con- 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


39 


veyed the pig, three crocus sacks over his head 
to drown his squeals. In the woods near Great 
Works we built the fire. Some one had to go 
back for a gun and a knife for the slaughter. 
The pig perished, dying like a hero in a good 
cause. The fellow who went for the gun brought 
back a magazine rifle, and the magazine was 
empty when the brute finally decided that he had 
had enough of life. The cooks decided that it 
would take too long for the animal heat to get 
out, so they cooked him still quivering and warm. 
Some say that the insides were never removed; 
but the cooks deny this charge with indigna- 
tion — too much indignation in fact. I had a 
piece of the hind-quarter for my portion, and I 
found a bullet in it, testifying to the excellence 
of Toad’s marksmanship; for before that we had 
all sworn that not a bullet had touched the pig. 
The cause of death, we declared, was fright, and 
I guess it was. Some camera fiends took several 
pictures of the bunch seated around the feast. 
All traces of the barbecue were destroyed and 
we threw what was left of the pig into the river. 

“In the meantime the Delta Gammas had come 
back for the pig. And lo! There was no pig 
where they had left him. Search as they would 


40 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


no pig could be found, which was passing strange 
under the circumstances. Finally they went home 
praying that the pig might not sojourn long 
away from them. 

‘‘In the morning Mr. Spear missed his pig. 
Furthermore, Mr. Spear found out with all pos- 
sible expedition just who had taken the pig. A 
sophomore who boarded with Spear, and who 
had not seemed very hungry at breakfast, told 
him that he was sure the Delta Gammas had 
stolen the pig. Whereupon Mr. Spear made a 
call upon Prexy and arrayed his evidence before 
that gentleman. Prexy was very willing to be- 
lieve that some of his students had been mixed 
up in the theft, and so he summoned the Delta 
Gammas before him and requested them to pro- 
duce the missing animal. They steadfastly de- 
nied all knowledge of the pig. They didn't know 
that Mr. Spear had a pig. They demanded to 
know in the name of every calendar saint of what 
use a pig would be to them. Lastly they declared 
that old Spear was sore with them anyway, and 
that they accepted it with hesitation as a fact 
that he had ever lost his pig at all. Prexy re- 
plied that without question all their doubts would 
be removed in time. The question now at issue 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


41 


was: Were they going to pay Mr. Spear for the 
pig which they had taken? 

“The Delta Gammas saw that Mr. Spear had 
the goods on them, and they finally admitted that 
they had taken the pig; but they declared that 
the present whereabouts of said animal was be- 
yond the scope of their knowledge. They then 
expressed themselves as willing to pay Mr. Spear 
a reasonable compensation for his loss. 

“The price of pork on the hoof went up like 
a July thermometer. Mr. Armour never had a 
pig shipped into Chicago of such sterling fibre 
and character as the late lamented Spear pig. 
Mr. Spear’s children were devotedly attached to 
the lost pig. The loss had added years to the 
age of every member of the Spear family. In 
order to be reconciled Mr. Spear must have an- 
other pig, also a lump sum as damages for alien- 
ated affections. The Delta Gammas said they’d 
see Spear in the hottest corner of Hades before 
they’d pay such an unheard-of sum for a com- 
mon hog, and matters hung in abeyance for 
awhile until the flashlight pictures of the bar- 
becue began to appear around the campus. The 
Delta Gammas jumped for those pictures like a 
trout after a fly and then waited on Prexy forth- 


42 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


with. They were good pictures and their evi- 
dence damned half the sophomore class. The 
pig was the plainest part of the picture. 

“Well, Spear hadn’t been able to get any 
money out of the Delta Gammas ; so he positively 
identified the pig in the picture as his pig and 
switched his claim for damages on to the sopho- 
more class. It was generally known around col- 
lege by this time just who had been in on the 
eating of the pig, and the whole bunch of cul- 
prits solemnly filed into the board room one 
morning after chapel. ‘Gentlemen,’ began Prexy, 
trying to look severe, ‘do you realize that you 
have been guilty of reprehensible conduct in 
stealing, killing and eating the valuable pig which 
the Delta Gammas had — er — borrowed from 
Mr. Spear?’ 

“A dozen voices were lifted in protest. They 
had found the pig running loose on the campus. 
The pig was doing great damage to the college 
garden. Such a lowly animal as a pig had no 
right to wander at will upon our sacred campus. 
Besides, we were as yet unacquainted with any 
rule of the university which forbade its students 
to kill and eat pigs whenever they chose so to 
do; and other similar arguments not entirely 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 43 

convincing, but none the less very hard to refute. 

“Prexy gave it up. He called in the Delta 
Gammas again and told them he guessed they'd 
have to pay for the pig. They beat Spear down 
to eighteen dollars cash, and he seemed quite 
cheerful for several days. But the Delta Gam- 
mas never lost a chance to make Spear's life 
miserable after that. After all, the pig cost the 
sophomores more than it did the Delta Gammas." 

“Why, how was that?" asked Andy Morris. 
“I thought you said the class didn't have to pay 
for the pig." 

“It was the incidentals that were expensive," 
explained Stevens, rising. “The old hand-car 
made six trips that night between Orono and the 
feast, and it brought up a fresh keg every trip. 
We couldn't very well make the Delta Gammas 
pay for the beer. They did their share when 
they stole the pig." 


IDEAL CONDITIONS 


If a man isn’t an athlete, then it’s his duty 
to himself and to his college to do all he can to 
make an athlete out of someone else. No one 
ever knows that he isn’t a ‘‘ten-flat” man until 
he runs the hundred against time and under ideal 
conditions. Now Mike Mahoney developed into 
the best quarter-miler in college; but he never 
had a spiked shoe on his foot until the spring of 
his freshman year. He just happened to strike 
ideal conditions one time under force of peculiar 
circumstances, and it is the very peculiar nature 
of those circumstances that gives me two stories 
to tell instead of one. 

Poker was the initial cause in the development 
of Mike’s sprinting ability; not a poker of the 
cast-iron variety, although I have known men to 
gather considerable momentum under the im- 
petus furnished by one of these weapons, made 
famous as a means of defense in the French and 
Indian War against undesirable students; but 
poker as a national game and as an important 
objection to the socialist’s theory of the distribu- 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


45 


tion of wealth. Poker hasn’t much in common 
with athletics, excepting that four-flushing is com- 
mon in both and that both are very uncertain — 
at times. There were several games running in 
town in my time and some of us used to take a 
flyer occasionally. One night I asked Mike to 
take a walk down to Frenchy’s place. He was 
a freshman then and no one was supposed to 
take him to any den of corruption; but I had to 
raise some capital and Mike was usually fool 
enough to lend all he had. But on this day he 
also was shy on the wherewith-to-get-along-with ; 
so we sold a suit of clothes apiece with an option 
of buying back within a week at a dollar above 
selling price. I sold one suit eleven times that 
year on these terms. The last buyer got the 
clothes for four dollars. I let him keep them, 
for the suit had become too expensive for me to 
keep. 

Well, we struck a game all right. It was 
quite a fast game and the cards were running 
big. With an even run of luck I could usually 
hold my own at poker and I was considered 
somewhat of an authority around college; but 
Mike was a runner-up for my position all right. 
You may have read a little booklet entitled ‘‘How 


46 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


to Play Poker” ? I cannot believe that this book 
is widely read in the west, for my freshman from 
California played a very original game and he 
had us all guessing. We knew that he must be 
way ahead at the end of an hour; but he never 
had over three dollars in front of him and no one 
ever noticed when he salted down the bills in his 
pockets. 

Mike was sitting on my right, and just across 
the table from him was one of those mixtures 
and misfits which go by the name of Canucks. 
This particular genus of the species got bluffed 
out of a big pot which Mike raked in, and there 
and then all friendship ended between those two. 
Thereafter the Canuck persisted in boosting when 
it would do Mike the most harm. This being a 
really disagreeable trait, Ireland refused to back 
down for French-Canada and these two expo- 
nents of the Catholic faith started a bluffing 
match. It raised the very devil with the game, 
so I trailed along one time with kings only, call- 
ing and continuing to call until the end. It was 
lucky for the firm of Clark & Mahoney that I 
did, for the Canuck had a pair of fours that time 
and Mike didn’t have anything but five cards. 
Then the gentleman across the way got mad at 
me too. 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


47 


I Opened the next pot on a pat flush and deter- 
mined that I’d take a hand in any boosting that 
might occur. I got all and more than I ever 
dared to pray for. The Canuck boosted me, and 
Mike raised him as scheduled; then I came back 
at them both. The big Canuck knew a lot about 
me from experience, so he just called; but Mike 
raised my bet and I his. We got the big guy 
between two fires and he just had to come. He 
kept coming up with his coin, getting uglier every 
minute, and he was fit to be tied when we quit. 
For either Mike or I to win that bunch of coin 
would amount to a declaration of war — and we 
knew it. 

The boss was a friend of mine. I had tipped 
him off on a raid one time and he owed me a 
favor. He made some remark about needing 
some change in his business and gathered up 
about seven dollars in silver, putting in the 
amount in bills. Then he opened the door, say- 
ing that the smoke was too thick. In the mean- 
time we had drawn our cards. Of course I held 
mine pat ; the Canuck took two which didn’t suit 
his taste, so one of his friends slipped him a 
couple under the table. I started to say some- 
thing real serious to him, but Mike had looked 


48 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


over his draw and signalled me to shut up. Then 
we had a few bets, but the Canuck tried to bet 
without any money and Mike objected. Of 
course a question of betting shy was referred to 
the house and Frenchy backed us up, so we 
showed down for the pot. The Canuck had 
found four eight-spots among his friends. I 
was a bit worried for fear that Mike wouldn’t 
come through with the honors, for the money 
on the table represented many trips to Bangor. 
But he quietly placed four queens on top of the 
eight-spots and pulled in the legal tender to his 
heart. Then the clouds that had been gathering 
across the table burst. 

A hundred and eighty pounds of mad Canuck 
started across the table toward Mike. It was 
right in the air when Mike sent out something 
to meet it. A small fist it was, not calculated to 
make any heavyweight take the count; but there 
was plenty of fighting Irishman behind it, and 
the disturber of the peace appeared to lose inter- 
est in the proceedings. I had the money in my 
hand when the trouble began and was out of the 
door when it ended. Neither did Mike linger 
long in the neighborhood. Frenchy did us an- 
other good turn and tipped over a chair in front 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


49 


of the pursuers. We beat it up the railroad 
track faster than the Stillwater Try- Weekly ever 
dared to go. Running records were broken that 
night, but those were never made official. The 
record that I started to tell you about is regularly 
entered on the books of the Island City Amateur 
Athletic Club. 


Hi 

“Ted, you’ve got a sporting goods agency, 
haven’t you?” Mike asked of me one night just 
after Easter vacation. 

“Yes. What do you want to buy ? A bathing 
suit?” We had thrown Mike in the river twice 
that day and all his clothes were decidedly damp. 
The bunch that had come in to disturb Freddy 
Saunders’ study hours laughed. Mike managed 
to grin himself. 

“No. I want a track suit and a pair of run- 
ning shoes. How long will it take to get them 
here?” Never a word about the cost, and I 
knew that Mike had spent the last of his year’s 
allowance over a month ago! 

“Oh, a week,” I replied lightly. “Track suits 
make good summer underwear, but what’s the 
idea about the shoes?” 


50 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


“Fm going out for track,” he answered. “You 
didn't know I could run, did you ? I didn’t either 
until last night.” 

“What's your specialty, Mike?” asked Garry 
Fisher. “I hope you break all the records in 
sight. Start training now and throw away that 
cigarette.” 

“Fve got one record now,” proudly replied 
Mike. “Twenty-three flat for the two-twenty, 
done in street clothes. If you don’t believe it, 
ask the secretary of the Island City Amateur 
Athletic Club.” 

“Sounds like some club. Where is it, Mike?” 
asked Garry. 

Wisie Hackett was there with the information. 
“Why, that’s the place on Water Street where 
they mix such good drinks. I didn’t know they 
turned out any athletes though. Lots of our best 
ones have been spoiled there. It’s a better place 
to break training than to train,” he told us. 

“Something like the Riding and Driving 
Club?” I asked. “Well, what’s in a name? 
How fast did you say you did the two-twenty, 
Mike?” 


“Twenty-three flat.” 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


51 


‘‘You must have been awfully scared,” ob- 
served Freddy from his corner, thus proving that 
he wasn’t studying after all. 

“I was,” admitted Mike. “I’ll tell you fellows 
about it, for it’s too good to keep. You’ve got 
to promise not to razoo me, though”; (thus 
showing that a freshman must learn to be cau- 
tious). 

“We’ll let you by for once,” replied Garry. 
Mike went on. 

“I met a girl in vacation when you fellows 
were home. I don’t know her name, but she 
lives in a house at the end of that level stretch 
of road that goes down to the suburb called 
‘Enormous Enterprise.’ I walked down with 
her last night after the skating rink closed and 
she invited me in. Her father was sitting in the 
kitchen when we went in. Ted, he was the same 
guy I punched the night we made the quick get- 
away out of Frenchy’s place. He didn’t get a 
good look at me, for he walked into the parlor 
when he saw that she had company. I don’t 
care about being entertained in the kitchen as a 
rule, but last night I thanked God for the chance 
and prayed that the girl wouldn’t speak my name, 
for I knew that her old man was looking for a 


52 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


guy named Mike Mahoney. I edged around so 
as to be contagious to the door and rushed the 
‘bonnes nuits’ all I could. Just as I turned to go 
the girl grabbed my sleeve. ‘Aren’t you going 
to kiss me?’ she asked softly and sweetly. 

“It was too bad to offend the child, and I de- 
cided to make a good job of it. She snuggled 
into my arms, looked up into my face — ” 

“She couldn’t have been very dam tall,” cut 
in Garry, with a grin. 

“Shut up, you mutt,” said Mike, forgetting for 
the moment that he was a freshman. “Looked 
up into my face with her eyes dancing in black 
danger signals, and kissed me a smack that must 
have echoed up in Pea Cove. Then she jumped 
back laughing, half screamed ‘Oh, you Mike 
Mahoney’ — and I went for the door contem- 
poraneously with the explosion in the parlor. 
Nor did I stand upon the manner of my going. 
They may have a nice home there, but I like 
quiet myself. 

“I slammed the door on my way through, and 
the irate father cleaned it off the hinges when 
he hit it. In the dooryard I looked back to size 
up my handicap, and I ran right off over that 
ten-foot embankment into the road. My des- 


TALES OF BOLIVAR S CHILDREN 


53 


tination was some thickly populated place and I 
turned in the air to face uptown. Just as I hit 
the dirt on my hands and knees a gun went bang 
behind me, and I jumped ten feet straight ahead 
and started to fly. I heard running steps just be- 
hind me and I flew faster till the steps were only 
a patter in the distance. Up the road a piece I 
passed two men, one on each side of the road, 
and another man jumped out to grab me; but I 
ran right over him and kept on going until I 
laid down to die in front of the Catholic church. 

‘‘I didn't know anything much until Trim 
Murphy came along and picked me up. ‘Good 
time, Mahoney,' he said. ‘But what did you 
run clear up here for?' 

“ ‘A h — of a good time,' I moaned. And 
then asked, ‘Did he hit me?' 

“ ‘Why, he's clean off his nut,' said Murphy 
to Kid Flanagan. It took them ten minutes to 
get the story into my head. You see, when I 
ran over that bank I landed right on the mark 
with a bunch of runners who were training for 
the dashes in the celebration next week, and it 
was the starter's pistol that scared me so. I did 
that two-twenty under the watch in twenty-three 
seconds and broke their old record by a whole 


54 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


second. And now Fm going after the college 
record too. Get those shoes as quick as you can, 
will you, Ted?” 

After we managed to stop laughing Garry 
Fisher had a question to ask. ‘‘How can you 
hold this record without belonging to the club, 
Mike?” 

“I do belong,” retorted Mahoney the sprinter. 
“They sell Budweiser there for fifteen cents a 
bottle, and I joined last fall after Fd been here 
a week.” 

You may say that I claim too much credit in 
saying that I made a runner out of Mike. May- 
be I do; but if I hadn’t taken him down to 
Frenchy’s that night he’d never have found out 
he could run; and it was his three points in the 
quarter that saved the state meet for us that 
spring. Figure it out for yourself. Do I de- 
serve credit, or not? 


THE BEST HE HAD 


If one compares the state track records with 
those of the New England Intercollegiate Asso- 
ciation, he will find that the Pine Tree State has 
nothing to be ashamed of in the comparison. 
And from the state record sheet he will also 
observe that the other colleges have the best of 
Maine in the number of records held. I have 
heard many express their regret that such should 
be the case; that Maine as the largest college 
should not excel Bates, Bowdoin and Colby in 
this respect. But after all, it’s the points that 
count in getting results, not the time; also two 
second places count more than one first when you 
come to add up the total. However this may be, 
there is one record that Bowdoin holds which 
Maine men are proud of. And as Bowdoin 
honors' her winner, so do we honor the man who 
made him run to set a record that will stand for 
years to come — four twenty-one for the mile. 

Colbath was in his prime then, the fastest 
miler that ever made Maine cinders fly. It was 
his last year in Bowdoin and his fourth year on 


56 TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 

the track team. He went on the mark that day- 
in his best form, with three years’ experience 
to aid him and with all his natural nerve and 
grit that had won many points for his college. 
If college boys were not too young to gamble I 
should say that the odds gave Colbath two to one 
against the field. It was a good bet at that. 

The only cloud in the Bowdoin sky that day 
was Harmon of Maine. He was a freshman 
then, and his name on the score cards excited no 
comment; but he was Maine’s hope in the mile 
and we believed in him all we dared. His speed, 
his development, his great improvement, had been 
college talk all the year. In the class meet the 
week before he had beaten Tom Fortier in the 
half, and you can find one or two men scattered 
around the country today who will tell you that 
Fortier was no slouch at that distance. Nat- 
urally we had come to expect too much from 
him, for he was young and lacking in experience. 
It was just as Paul said to me after the race: 
Hope had made us expect more than we had any 
right to pray for. 

At the mass-meeting the night before the meet 
Paul Harmon had made a speech. He wasn’t 
on the program for a speech, but we saw him in 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


57 


the back row and dragged him out. Fellows 
said that it was the first time that a freshman 
had ever spoken before the student body. It 
was a poor attempt, for he had been called upon 
without warning and Paul was never strong on 
the oratory. (Attest: W. P. Daggett.) But at 
the close of his halting phrases and ill-chosen 
words there stood out several sentences that 
made us feel the spirit behind them. “Fellows," 
he said in closing, “everything that has been said 
here tonight may be summed up in four words: 
Do something for Maine. I'm a freshman 
now — never have done anything for Maine and 
perhaps never will. But tomorrow I get my 
chance to make good — to pay the college back 
in part for what she has done for me. And 
fellows, win or lose. I'm going to give Maine 
all I've got. A man can't do any more than 
that." 

The whole college went on the special train to 
Lewiston. As far as winning the meet went, we 
didn't have the show of a freshman at a dance 
in Stillwater, but of course you couldn't make 
us believe that. According to the best dope 
Maine would win by one point. As we grow 
older we cease to believe in any dope on a track 


5 ^ 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


meet, but that day we were all young or else in 
our second childhood. Why, that bunch was so 
optimistic that, after the meet was lost and Bates 
had won second place, we started to figure out 
how we would win it next year. The next year 
we did win the meet ; perhaps it was the figuring 
so early that did it. There was an old gink of 
a king once who was led to remark: ‘‘How 
straitened and wretched would be our life, if our 
hope were not so spacious and extensive.” That 
king was some wise guy! 

The trials in the morning went off in good 
shape. All the Maine men who were expected 
to qualify brought our expectations to fulfillment, 
and at two o’clock the cheering section was full 
of confidence. No one could have convinced us 
that Maine wouldn’t get five points in the hun- 
dred and six in the mile. The population of 
Missouri increased six hundred that afternoon. 

There were three trial heats for the hundred- 
yard dash, and Maine men took second places in 
all three. Froggy Pond was the best of the 
bunch and he was Mills’ choice for the final. 
Billy Murphy, A1 Deering and Froggy came 
down the stretch in the semi-final at a dog trot 
amid shouts and laughter from the crowd, and 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


59 


Froggy broke the tape as a matter of form. The 
announcer wouldn’t give us the time, but I sup- 
pose that this race was the slowest hundred ever 
run. 

The final was some faster. Half way down 
the stretch the four men pulled into line and held 
this position from there to the finish. The tape 
broke in two places, and the judges at the finish 
swore that eighteen inches was a conservative 
estimate of the distance between the winner and 
the fourth man. In the Maine bleachers we 
hailed Pond as the winner. Bowdoin was as 
sure that their men had taken first and second 
places, and their bunch promptly went mad. 
When the tumult had subsided and the officials 
had held a long pow-wow we got the result. 
They gave Pond third place — one point instead 
of five. The time was ten flat — and Froggy 
had never done the distance under ten-two be- 
fore ! It wasn’t a new record, for Cloudman and 
Patsy Rollins attended to that in ’99; but it was 
just close and fast enough to be interesting. Oh, 
yes ! 

The Maine dopesters promptly got busy and 
tried to patch things up. They ran through the 
whole list of events, but couldn’t find any more 


6o 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


possible points for Maine. The pole vault came 
last on the list, so that had to take the blame. 
Winters was the only pole vaulter we had — for 
Lute Rogers was still at odds with the faculty — 
and Ame Winters couldn’t do over ten feet with- 
out divine assistance. He wasn’t one of those 
kind who can order wings and other celestial 
adornments shipped in by the next express with- 
out making a deposit in advance, and his only 
chance lay in the remote possibility that the other 
competitors might die before the event came off. 
I was out for the pole vault myself that spring — 
six-feet-five was my best effort — and I knew 
just how much show Winters had of winning; 
but the perfect confidence of those around me 
made me believe in miracles that day. 

The field got on scratch for the mile. To us 
it was Harmon and Hicks against Colbath, 
though I suppose the other colleges saw it differ- 
ently, each one to its taste. The runners jumped 
with the gun, jockeyed for position on the turn, 
and swung into the back stretch with Colbath in 
the lead, Harmon trailing him, and Hicks well 
up among the leaders. The first round was fast 
and the field was strung out behind these three 
on the start of the second lap. Bowdoin and 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


6l 


Maine gave their men a cheer as they passed the 
stands. The Bates and Colby crowd forgot that 
they had men of their own in the race, and all 
eyes were turned toward the leaders to watch the 
prettiest and fastest mile that this state ever saw. 

On the back stretch Harmon passed the Bow- 
doin man and took the lead. But Colbath had 
never been headed after the first lap in any race 
for four years, and second place was too near 
the van for him. He promptly sprinted by Har- 
mon and resumed the lead, nor was he passed 
again for the race. If Paul had only matched 
that sprint and held him for a few yards! But 
then, post-mortems for remorse, they say. 

The three leaders finished the half mile run- 
ning easily, but letting out a bit on the straight- 
away. From the pace set thus far no one ex- 
pected that the record would go. But on the 
third lap the speed increased and Hicks dropped 
back. He had third place cinched and he knew 
it. He also knew that he couldn’t finish better 
than third anyway; and added to this was the 
knowledge that he had an important part to play 
in the two-mile later in the day. There was 
nothing the matter with that lad’s head — con- 
trary evidence notwithstanding. 


t>2 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


As Colbath and Harmon came into the turn 
at the end of the third quarter Paul turned and 
waved his hand. A cheer went up from the 
Maine section, for we thought that he was 
waving goodbye to the rest of the bunch and 
we joyfully pardoned the apparent affectation. 
(Paul told me afterward that he had waved to 
a girl who had called to him from an automobile 
near the track. Funny how a man can't get 
away from women, even when clad in such ex- 
treme dishabille as a track suit.) 

But as it turned out, this airy salute to femi- 
ninity was particularly apropos as a farewell to 
the runners behind. For right here Colbath 
started and Harmon went after him. Down the 
straightaway they came at full speed and the 
starting pistol sent them away on the last quar- 
ter. The crowd rose as one man. It was some- 
thing worth while to watch these men fight it out, 
neither yielding an inch, and each giving all he 
had in his effort to win the points which might 
spell victory or defeat for his own college. Each 
was running as fast as he could with the obvious 
intention of keeping it up for as long as his heart 
could drive his legs in their weakening stride. 
Dead game they both were, and dead game they 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 63 

finished — not in a hair-raising, under-a-blanket 
finish, but just a driving fast finish of a hard 
mile race, in which Colbath earned the honors 
for himself and Bowdoin, while Paul Harmon, 
living up to his promise, gave the best he had 
for Maine. • j i 

We don't love Bowdoin so much as we might 
up on the Maine State Farm where I took my 
degree; but we're still square enough to give 
credit where credit is due. We honor the Bow- 
doin man who put the mile record where it is 
today — yes, praise him all that we in our selfish 
nature can. But higher on our own honor-roll 
we place the name of the green and untried fresh- 
man who made the best miler in New England 
do his best. And it pleases us to think — we 
who saw that race — that Paul Harmon is really 
the one who put that record where it is. And 
we know too that he gave Maine the best and all 
he had when he drove Colbath across that line in 
the splendid time of four-twenty-one. May all 
Maine men do their share as well! 


THE REWARD OF VALOR 


Sensible men are all agreed that the Spanish- 
American War conferred no benefit upon any one 
except Theodore Roosevelt, nor upon any coun- 
try except Cuba. In the first place, the war 
landed the Philippines on our hands, thus making 
necessary a new version of the Monroe Doctrine, 
and furnishing grounds for a new war scare 
every time Japan happens to build or buy a new 
super-dreadnought. Then the war handed us 
out a few more islands which have kicked a few 
more kinks into the complexities of the sugar 
schedule, thereby producing a new theme for 
tariff oratory — if there is such a thing. Of 
course weVe got to hang on to Hawaii in order 
to insure America the five points in the swim- 
ming events at the next Olympics. To my 
knowledge, the Republican minority didn’t bring 
up this argument in the debate against free sugar, 
which goes to prove that the patriotic Congress- 
men are all dead. Democrats, or defeated. 

However, the economic, political, and athletic 
aspects of this question are of little interest and 


TALES OF bolivar’s CFIILDREN 


65 


have no bearing on the story which I purpose to 
tell. But right here I call you all to witness that 
there was no reason why our state of Maine 
should bear more than her share of the burden 
which the war inflicted upon this country. It’s 
too late now to revolt against the injustice that 
Maine received ; but we can at least let the world 
know that we were aware of it at the time. I 
refer to the foisting of a product of the war — 
namely, Edward Deane Cummins, Capt. 17th 
N. Y. Inf., U. S. A. — upon the University of 
Maine as Commander of the Battalion of Cadets. 

He was some young soldier, was Edward 
Deane. His uniform showed it, if nothing else 
did. No quartermaster-sergeant ever handed out 
such a splendid uniform to anyone except the 
bravest of the brave. Gold braid was the fun- 
damental structure in this suit, with blue uniform 
cloth patched over the holes in the braid pattern. 
The whole framework had been hung on a pair 
of shoulder straps which were embellished with 
more golden glitter, scattered around in a design 
that must have meant something in the army, but 
which in reality meant nothing to us students. 
And we had all taken military, at that. When 
this patchwork of gloss and glitter, serge and 


66 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


surgery, was ready for the hero, Edward D. 
Cummins had evidently been melted and poured 
inside. There was no question about the fit. It 
fitted him just as soon as the melted man had 
cooled and crystallized within. 

But the real live interest-rousing act in Cap- 
tain Cummins’s repertoire was the drawing of 
his sword. This wonderful weapon had been 
presented to him for bravery, speed, or personal 
appearance — he never told which — and he 
valued it more than life itself. The makers had 
plastered the gold to it wherever it would stick, 
and most of it had stuck. Eddie Deane, as we 
called him after the first day, seldom exposed the 
blade of this sword to the corroding elements of 
the atmosphere; but when it did leap forth from 
the scabbard and dazzled the eyes of those fortu- 
nate enough to behold, it left in the minds of the 
audience an impression of a scintillating sunbeam 
shooting from a golden orb. And the eyes of 
the commander furthered this sun-like impres- 
sion by the sparks which snapped out, as he 
thought of the Spaniards and Moros who had 
slipped this mortal mooring on account of the 
depressing influence of a penetrated heart. Truly 
a blade to excite fear and respect in the minds of 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 67 

all beholders. Oh, it must have been great to 
be killed with a sword like that! 

Somehow this soldier offspring of the war 
with Spain failed to impress the Maine student 
body with his indomitable appearance and his 
unimpeachable record. The boys called him a 
“frost,” a “swell-head,” a “lemon”; and so on by 
degrees into terms of profanity. They laughed 
when they saw him in his war clothes. They 
laughed when they heard his first pompous com- 
mand: “Battalion — ten' shun T They laughed 
when they saw him march in front of the corps 
with as long a stride as his tight pants would 
allow. And Hal Garrison, Captain of Company 
A, used to keep his men on the hot foot all the 
time with the hope of making Commander Cum- 
mins walk fast enough to rip out his pants. But 
they held for six months under this rough usage. 
Those pants were of better cloth than Ikey Samp- 
son used to sell. 

There was always something about Eddie 
Deane which would make you laugh. But the 
climax of merriment came when Captain Cum- 
mins first drew his sword. It was some sword, 
as I have endeavored to impress upon you. But 
hardly one eye in the battalion or the crowd was 


68 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


fixed upon the shining weapon over the com- 
mander’s head. They were all looking at Eddie 
Deane himself, who was standing eyes front and 
glaring, his chest puffed out like a singing bull- 
frog’s. The little soldier boys just had to laugh 
at this spectacle. But Commander Cummins 
never heard them. He was thinking perhaps of 
that day in Luzon when he had saved his com- 
mander from the descending bolo of a Malay 
running amuck. He was as indifferent to that 
shout of laughter as is the average sophomore 
to a non-hazing pledge. The hurricane of merri- 
ment finally burst against the battlements of his 
imperturbability, and the drill went on. 

It was the upper-classmen with whom Com- 
mander Cummins had most to contend. He 
could handle the freshman cadets pretty well, for 
they weren’t old enough to be dangerous. Be- 
sides, the freshmen knew that Cummins could 
stick them in the course if he wanted to, and 
nobody but a sucker would take a chance on 
having to take military drill more than once. 
We love it too well for that. But the other three 
classes were not obliged to drill, and over them 
the commander had no control, either theoreti- 
cally or practically. Sophomores, juniors, and 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 69 

seniors united in an attempt to make Eddie 
Deane’s life miserable; and, all things consid- 
ered, they succeeded pretty well. Eddie Deane 
never conducted a drill without having a minia- 
ture army of upper-classmen on the flank, en- 
gaged in the task of mixing up the whole bat- 
talion. This little army was organized in good 
shape from General Disorder down to Corporal 
Punishment. Splendid discipline prevailed in its 
ranks, for every man was patriotically working 
for one common object, i. e., to get Commander 
Cummins mad. The freshman cadets paid more 
attention to this army than to their own officers. 
Just as the battalion was getting started on some 
movement, a command would ring out from the 
flank something as follows: ‘‘Major Instructor, 
form the company in line of promotion. Feb- 
ruary — March! The guide is — Drunk!” And 
off would go twenty upper-classmen in line, all 
trying to imitate Cummins’ pose and stride. 
Eddie Deane affected not to pay any attention to 
them, and had more or less success — mostly less. 
The discipline among the cadets showed a chance 
for improvement along about April. 

Harry Minot was the originator of all the 
deviltry perpetrated upon Commander Cummins. 


70 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


He used to lay awake nights thinking up stunts 
calculated to finally destroy whatever prestige 
Eddie Deane had left attached to himself. Harry 
came up on the campus one morning and picked 
out a dozen lieutenants who would follow him 
until the infernal regions became covered with 
ice and then follow him on skates. They all cut 
classes that morning and went up to the barn. 
It was passed around at chapel that there would 
be things doing at drill hour, and the eleven 
o’clock classes were poorly attended. 

At eleven-five sharp the companies marched 
out from the gym to the lawn back of Coburn. 
It was the first time that the cadets had been 
outdoors to drill that spring. The ground was 
softer than it looked, and the trampling feet cut 
it up into mud in a minute. Commander Cum- 
mins noticed the unusual attendance and felt 
complimented. At last the students had come to 
appreciate his good work. The absence of the 
small army on the flank worried him ; but he con- 
cluded that the fellows had given it up during 
the winter. Eddie Deane was wearing Excalibur 
that morning and was feeling very cocky. The 
cadets lined up along the walk from Coburn to 
the new library. Eddie Deane addressed them. 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 7 1 

“On Friday next we will have an inspection. 
You will clean your guns and accoutrements, 
press your suits, shine your shoes, wear a white 
shirt, — ” 

“Wash your face?” inquired a voice from the 
audience. 

“Hey, Cummins, make the captain of B Com- 
pany stop chewing tobacco!” shouted someone 
else. 

Eddie Deane scanned the crowd in search of 
the offender and we all gave him the laugh. He 
decided that his troubles were not quite over yet. 
Convinced of the uselessness of saying anything 
to that crowd, he turned to the cadets. If there 
should only be another war, he would show these 
scoffers what a man he was. 

A person who wants a war can usually get it. 
Eddie Deane got his, both literally and slangily. 
Around the corner of Coburn charged the attack- 
ing force. Harry Minot was in the lead, the 
inspiring genius of the charge. Behind him, 
drawn by ten able men, came an old pair of cart- 
wheels with a shotgun lashed to the axle. They 
snapped this impromptu gun-carriage out in front 
of the line of cadets and swung the gun to bear 
on the battalion centre. “As skirmishers — 


72 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


March!” howled a confederate hidden in the 
trees back of Prexy's house, and the freshmen 
actually started to go through the movement. 

''Fire!” yelled Minot, and the old shotgun 
spoke her little piece. “Load! Aim! Fire!” 
and again the gunners poured a deadly hail of 
wadding across the blood-drenched plaza. It 
must have reminded Eddie Deane of a real war. 

“Disperse!" shouted Eddie Deane, advancing 
upon the artillery. The gunners stood their 
ground like heroes, and Eddie Deane hesitated, 
wondering what was the best way to make them 
disperse. And as he stood irresolute, disquieted 
at the bold front of the invaders, there rose from 
the crowd, from the cadets, even from the gun- 
ners themselves, a burst of laughter that called 
all the professors to the windows. Then Eddie 
Deane saw red. 

Commander Cummins bared his sword. Brave 
as ever — yes, bravest of the brave — he charged 
for the guns, mad as a boxed tackle at last. It 
was, if I may speak in popular parlance, no place 
for a nervous man. “Retreat!" ordered Com- 
mander Minot, and they got away just in time. 
But the wheels of the gun-carriage caught Harry 
on the turn and he fell right in the line of Eddie 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


73 


Deane’s advance. The audience held its breath. 

But military ethics forbade that Captain Cum- 
mins should take revenge upon a fallen enemy. 
He leaped over the prostrate form in his path. 
And Harry Minot, dastardly rascal, oblivious of 
the code which Eddie Deane observed, grabbed 
the commander’s leg as he was jumping over. 

It was lucky for Eddie Deane’s head that the 
ground was so soft, though somewhat unfortu- 
nate for his uniform. A tailor could have made 
him a suit to fit by measuring the impression in 
the mud. And this was the only impression that 
Captain Cummins ever made on the campus — 
an impression in mud. 

The superlative degree of mad and muddy is 
the only adjective that could describe Eddie 
Deane when he rose from his bed in the heart 
of Nature and looked around for his sword. He 
found it also sheathed in Mother Earth, three 
feet of Damascus blade and half the hilt stuck 
down in the mud. It was a pitiful sight, but 
still we laughed. His uniform was spoiled, his 
sword was sullied, and his heart was broken. 
“Captain Garrison, take command of the bat- 
talion,” he ordered, struggling to keep back the 
tears of shame. Then Edward Deane Cummins, 


74 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


Captain 17th N. Y. Inf., U. S. A., struck for 
Alumni Hall and passed from out our ken. 

Eddie Deane’s next entrance on the stage of 
campus life was marked by the appearance of a 
less pretentious uniform and by the noticeable 
absence of the shining sword which his valor had 
won. All of which goes to show that bravery 
should be its own reward. 


A CORPSELESS FUNERAL 

Ivy Day on the campus! What generous 
fairy has sent this swarm of white-clad heart- 
destroyers to add more joy to an already joyful 
occasion? From zones of infinite radii they 
come, with their pretty dresses packed in one 
small suitcase — come only to remain for a night 
and a day — come in order to depart with a few 
more hearts strung on their fast-growing Eros 
necklace. D. L. Auld does a rushing business 
during Junior Week. 

But today girls and all their charms failed to 
amuse me. I soon lost interest in the proceed- 
ings and was walking past Coburn on my way 
home when some one hailed me from the steps. 
Bob Kenton ran down the path and fell into step. 
‘‘Where away?” he asked. 

“Fll see enough of this stuff next year,” I 
replied. “Going home and play a couple of sets 
of singles before supper.” 

“Fll go down and trim you up,” he asserted 
confidently. “I was pretty good at tennis when 
I was here, but I haven't played a game for six 
years.” 


76 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


We turned from the walk into College Ave- 
nue, talking of prospects for a baseball cham- 
pionship that spring. Ivy Day came early in 
May that year, and the state series had but just 
begun. 

“If we beat Bowdoin,” declared the old-timer, 
“then I don’t care a rap if Bates wins the series. 
I hope — My God !” he broke off suddenly. 
“Did you see that?” 

In his excitement he had raised his hand to 
indicate what had so aroused him. A student 
and a co-ed were strolling along the walk leading 
to the Coop. The fellow wore a blue cap with 
a large white button on top, an insignia marking 
him as a freshman. Such sights were not un- 
usual at that time, and I shrugged my shoulders. 

“What of it?” I asked. “True love must run 
its course while it lasts. She isn’t very hand- 
some, is she?” 

“A freshman,” Bob said slowly and solemnly, 
“walking with a co-ed. You’re a sophomore, 
aren’t you? Do you permit such a thing as 
that.” 

“The anti-hazing movement of 1909 has effect- 
ually stopped all freshman discipline in public,” 
I explained. “The fraternities keep their own 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


77 


freshmen in line fairly well. That fellow’s a 
non-frat. man, so there’s nothing I can do. It’s 
to be regretted, but it can’t be helped.” 

“I’ve been in lots of colleges since I graduated 
from Maine,” said Bob. “Wherever hazing has 
been abolished class spirit has died too; also col- 
lege spirit to a greater or less degree. The two 
lower classes need a certain amount of fighting; 
but nowadays the sophomores let the freshmen 
walk all over them.” 

“The freshmen had a peach of a scrap with 
the sophs in ’97/’ he continued. “It was on 
Ivy Day too — fifteen years ago. The exercises 
today made me think of it. There hadn’t been 
a real good scrap for a week or so, and things 
were getting dead; so the freshmen decided to 
pull off something of a hostile nature. 

“The sophomores were watching the juniors 
plant the class ivy and the exercises were in full 
swing, when down the road passed a remarkable 
procession. In front was a coffin labeled with 
huge numerals, carried by six pall-bearers dressed 
in black. In funeral step behind marched the 
whole freshman class, everyone trying to look 
solemn and sad. As the procession passed Co- 
burn Hall there was a wild commotion. The 


78 TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 

sophomores left their girls, struggled free from 
the crowd, and rushed the pall-bearers. But 
with quick precision and a military manoeuvre 
the freshman line of march became a solid square 
with the coffin in the centre and hidden from 
view. But everyone knew what was going on 
by this time. 1900 was performing obsequies 
for 1899. 

“The sophomores rushed singly, charged en 
masse, drew back and charged again. They 
might as well have charged a stone wall. The 
freshmen outnumbered them two to one and the 
ranks of the square remained unbroken. Down 
to the river bank they carried the deceased and 
consecrated an impromptu graveyard where the 
digging was easiest. 1899 bought on the out- 
side of the square, struggling to prove that 1900 
was trying to bury their class while life still 
lasted. Six spades came out of the coffin in 
which the class of 1899 was sleeping its last little 
long nap, and six sextons dug a grave — shal- 
low but none the less a grave. Over the hole 
were placed two boards, and on these was laid 
the coffin ready to be let drop when the cere- 
monies were performed. 

“Then Tommy Holden, the tallest man in the 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


79 


class and the best orator in college, got up on 
the coffin to deliver the funeral oration. The 
sophomores had quit fighting when the fresh- 
men had shouted that the grave was dug, and 
were trying to make the best of a bad situation. 
They planned to get the freshmen one by one 
when the funeral let out. But no one could 
stand still and hear his own class preached into 
a nameless grave. If Tommy wanted to pre- 
serve peace he began his remarks very unfortu- 
nately. The dogs of war broke loose after his 
first sentence, and then occurred the noisiest 
funeral in history, not excepting Julius Caesar’s. 
Mark Antony had nothing on Tommy Holden 
when it came to arousing the assembled populace. 

‘Classmates, enemies, and visitors,’ he began 
in a loud voice. ‘We come to bury ’99, not to 
praise them — NOT BY A DAM SIGHT.’ 

“Right here the scrap proper began. Lucky 
was he who had a rag to cover his nakedness 
when the field had been fought. No weapons 
were barred except firearms, and those only be- 
cause no one had any. Meanwhile the orator of 
the day continued, and his voice refused to be 
drowned out by any mortal sounds. ‘Praise is 
the product of a fulsome heart, a bringing to the 


8o 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


surface in words an expression of our inner love 
and esteem which we hold for the object of our 
regard — in this case the dear departed. Do 
we love and esteem the class of 1899? NOT 
BY A DAM SIGHT! I shall seek to express 
myself simply and clearly. It is not the quin- 
tessence of ideal oratory to deal in polysyllables. 
Listen you then, you who are herein convened 
to witness this timely burial. Are you listening ? 
Not by a Dam Sight! You’re fighting! Take 
shame to yourselves thus to disgrace your fami- 
lies and to disturb the solemnity of this sad 
moment. 

‘‘ The class of 1899, on whose corpse I now 
stand with muddy feet, has passed to the great 
beyond and is no longer with us. We all join 
in mourning the memory of the class which once 
was great — until 1900 appeared on the field to 
contend for her share of honors. As Antony 
was Caesar’s friend, so are we not the friend of 
1899? NOT BY A DAM SIGHT! 

“ ‘But in this memorable hour when class 
differences are forgotten and restful quiet does 
honor to the class which is no longer with us, 
we take pleasure in giving the devil his due when 
we say that 1899 was once a class; but it died 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


8l 


of a loathsome disease and is now a dead class 
about to be interred. If I should say that 1899 
is now a class, would the echoes confirm my 
statement? NOT BY A DAM SIGHT! Na- 
ture herself revolts at giving utterance to such 
an abominable falsehood. 

“ ‘Aha ! I hear a shouting without our gates — 
also without our coffin and without our consent. 
The sentiment of the populace does not seem to 
be in accord with my theme. Is there anyone 
in that howling mob who can penetrate to the 
bier on which I stand, and there call me a liar? 
NOT BY A DAM SIGHT!’ 

“That was the last from Tommy. Then they 
rushed the freshman flank — one last mad irre- 
sistible rush and the corpse was buried in fresh- 
men instead of dirt. The square was broken 
and 1900 fled in all directions. The pursuit was 
short and prisoners were plenty. The funeral 
effigy was forgotten and was left above the grave. 
Revenge was what 1899 wanted and they got 
it — later. A paddle line was formed for a 
starter and the freshman president was led to 
the head. He stood there apparently interested 
in the beauty of the river scenery. The sophs 
yelled for him to come along and be killed. The 


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president began to grin and continued to be in- 
terested in the river. A sophomore grabbed him, 
told him he’d see the river all right enough a 
little later, and shoved him into the gauntlet; 
but before a paddle fell Mike Sullivan jumped 
into the line with a yell that took the whole bunch 
off their feet. ‘The grave! Kill him! Kill him!’ 

“The sophomores looked, but somehow forgot 
to grin. Down by the river bank stood Tommy 
Holden giving a few- final pats with a spade to 
the mound above a newly filled grave. Then 
came the deluge, but Tommy elected to swim the 
river rather than brave the wrath which was on 
its way. 

“And at the head of the grave stood a wooden 
tablet bearing these few simple words: ‘Here 
lies what is left of 1899.’ The sophomores dug 
until they struck water, finding nothing and say- 
ing a great deal. After digging for two hours 
without reward they gave it up and went away. 
But Bliss Hopkins lingered for a moment behind 
the rest. He re-read the inscription on the head- 
stone, looked at the empty grave, smiled fool- 
ishly — and laid for Tommy Holden. Bliss saw 
the point.” 


MIKE MAHONEY’S REFORM MOVE- 
MENT 

When a man starts out to reform certain con- 
ditions he first of all wants to be sure that he 
understands the exact nature of the conditions 
in question. Reform is an easy thing to advo- 
cate, but a dam hard thing to execute. If I, 
with my present equipment, of knowledge derived 
from experience, should be confronted with the 
task of changing certain conditions for the better 
within a period of four years, my method of 
procedure would be as follows : For three years 
I should make a very careful study of all the 
circumstances which had bearing upon the exist- 
ing conditions. Then, if Time hadn’t done the 
reforming in the meantime, I should jump the 
job; but if Time had done the work for me, I 
should of course claim the credit for it myself. 

There was a groceryman in my home town 
who had a system somewhat like mine. One 
day he sold a lady a string of smoked herring. 
The next day the lady returned to the store. 
''Mister,” she complained, "I cooked those her- 


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ring and they were tough and salt and smelly. 
Don’t you know any way to make these fish fit 
to eat?” “Why,” replied the storekeeper, “I’ll 
tell you the way I have of treating herring. My 
wife soaks them in a solution of warm water and 
sugar for seven days until they are soft and 
sweet. Then I take ’em and throw ’em straight 
to hell !” 

What I am trying to bring out is this: That 
one must stand back and study the ground care- 
fully before he takes a step in advance. But 
Mike Mahoney was a freshman, and he never 
even saw the Island City until October. He 
spent his winter evenings in making a more or 
less superficial examination of Island City con- 
ditions. I give him credit for finding out more 
about the City of Dreadful Night in one winter 
than I discovered in four years; but I hold fast 
to my belief that he didn’t find out enough so as 
to be able to judge well and discreetly of the 
things he witnessed. For if he had, he’d never 
have got Brownie Green and Cy Patterson to go 
in with him in his splendid reform movement. 

As I understand it, a reform is a reconstruc- 
tion with the implication of a change for the 
better. To cure a man of playing pitch by teach- 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 85 

ing him how to play poker is not a reform; it 
fits into the first part of the definition all right, 
but runs sadly shy on the second essential ele- 
ment. Therefore, when Mike told me that his 
firm had started business by getting three girls 
away from the skating rink and taking them 
down to the dance in Fluid-at-Rest, I objected 
on the ground that there was no reform here ; — 
it was going from bad to a possible worse. 

‘‘But dancing is an innocent art,” argued Mike. 

“And isn’t roller skating?” I countered. And 
he subsided. 

It was a joke at first to see these three expo- 
nents of morality going forth to conquer sin on 
its own camping ground. I remember Artie 
Atkins reminding Mike that “charity begins at 
home,” telling him that if he’d reform the col- 
lege first he’d be taking a long step toward re- 
forming Island City later. In just one thing 
Mike had it right; he argued that the reform 
should start on the Island, and that with this 
place once put on the “straight and narrow” the 
rest would be easy ; which is true — very true — 
but which never, never will be proved while the 
river continues to flow through Island City in 
two branches. 


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We heard tales of their progress now and then 
from the homes where the reform syndicate was 
exerting its benevolent influence. Their advent 
as saviours of mankind did just one positive 
good. It cleaned up all the loose stones that 
were lying around; for who shall begrudge the 
boys their innocent pastime? The girls kidded 
them along and laughed at them behind their 
backs. The fond parents, with their ready-made 
opinions of college students in general, were be- 
wildered and didn’t know what in H to think. 
But Cy and Brownie and Mike remained happy 
in their ignorance of all this and in the thought 
that they were doing good to humanity — which 
they were — by not doing any harm. 

About the middle of March Cy and Brownie 
withdrew from the partnership after three weeks 
of ineffectual effort. Cy had started a specu- 
lation in live stock and was spending his leisure 
hours in operating a fine-tooth comb. Brownie 
lasted two days longer — until he lost all his 
money in a family poker game. Mahoney told 
me about it. 

“Brownie,” said Mike to me, “is the biggest 
fool west of the Penobscot River.” He went on 
to explain that a person could start toward the 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 87 

sunset, go clear round the globe, and still remain 
west of aforementioned body of water. I con- 
sidered this to be a very sweeping statement, not 
at all complimentary to Brownie Green. 

“Why, Mike ?” I asked. “I trust, for the sake 
of Island City’s future welfare, that you partner- 
ship is not finally dissolved?” 

He went on to elucidate. “You know Joe 
Thibedault?” I admitted my acquaintance with 
the gentleman. “Best poker player in the coun- 
ty, ain’t he?” I confessed that I considered Joe 
pre-eminent in this line of art. “Well,” con- 
tinued Mike, “Brownie taught him to play poker 
this evening.” 

''Taught him!” I exclaimed. “Mike, do you 
mean to tell me that Brownie Green fell for that 
sort of stuff? He ought to file an application 
for a guardian. How much money did Brownie 
have left?” 

“Joe got it all,” said Mike sadly; for he hated 
to see good money leave the house. “You see, 
there’s only one girl at Thibedault’s and I was in 
the parlor with her. Brownie was in the kitchen 
with the old folks playing blind pitch with an old 
greasy deck of cards. He got tired of this game 
and he asked the old man if he knew how to play 


88 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


poker. Joe said he didn't. That was the whole 
of it." And Mike lifted his shoulders and spread 
his hands in a gesture that showed no great rev- 
erence for Browne Green's mental processes. 

“And now Brownie has quit the reform move- 
ment too?" I asked. 

“So he says," replied Mike. Then he set his 
alarm clock at seven-thirty and headed for bed. 

Brownie was as good as his word. From then 
on the whole onus operandi fell on Mike. He 
had to lengthen his working hours a bit in order 
to do three men's work. Also, he limited the 
radius of his endeavor and confined his atten- 
tions to one girl. The Eagle House had Mike 
for a regular boarder except on rare occasions 
when he caught the 12.05 train. The girl, as 
Mike described her to me, seemed to be the 
quintessence of all that was fair, French and 
faithful. She stayed at home every night. He 
had known her for a week. Her name he very 
wisely refused to disclose; but Brownie Green, 
who was still sore at Mike on account of the 
poker episode, came across with the desired in- 
formation. Then I went to Wisie Hackett. 

Wisie kept a notebook containing scraps of 
information that he had picked up during his 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 89 

college career. There was an alphabetical list 
of all the college widows, their addresses, and 
other miscellaneous data. In the female index 
we found her name. (This is almost a true 
story, so I can’t tell it to you.) The insert in 
Wisie’s notebook read something as follows: 

“ . (Inf. from G. Y.) Island 

City, Island. 2 by twice house on point of rocks 
near sewer. One room. Two brothers, neither 
dangerous. No dog. Father an S. I. V. Sofa 
in kitchen. Skating rink MON., WED., SAT. 
Left wing front seats at New Central. Can 
read a little; can’t write. Large collection loose 
jewelry.” 

Wisie and I looked at each other and laughed. 
'‘A girl might have a better recommendation,” 
he admitted. 

“But Mike’s nobody’s fool,” I argued. “Do 
you suppose she’s stuck on him and mended her 
ways? She’s been at home every night for a 
week, Mike says.” 

Wisie leaned back in his chair and looked 
thoughtful. Then he began to laugh. He laughed 
for about a minute before I began to kick him, 
demanding that he put me wise to the joke. He 
controlled himself with an effort. 


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TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


“What boneheads we are !” he exclaimed. 
“Why, dammit, man, last week was the first of 
Lent!” 

And after Lent was over the skating rink got 
its old patroness back; and Mike Mahoney’s re- 
form movement broke up altogether. 


THE WAY TO LOSE 


If you look back in the 1907 Prism and turn 
to the account of the state track meet of 1905, 
you^ll notice that Everett of Bowdoin won the 
half mile, running in two minutes, five seconds 
and a fraction — slow time. And you may won- 
der why Spider St. Onge finished no better than 
third in that race ; for history tells that the Spider 
could negotiate the distance right around record 
time. For if St. Onge had won that race and 
Hen Bearce had come in third, then Maine and 
Bowdoin would have been tied for the meet with 
fifty-seven points each, instead of Bowdoin win- 
ning from us by four points. 

Hard luck we’ll have to call it — but that kind 
of hard luck which breeds heroes and makes his- 
tory. There are only a few of us who have 
heard the story — far too few ; for it is the sort 
of a story that Maine men ought to hear and 
remember : — How a man fought and lost. 

I don’t need to tell you anything about Spider 
St. Onge. You have all heard of him as a great 
runner and an all-around good fellow. He ran 


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TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


on the track and relay teams for four years and 
had a good deal to do with breaking several 
records, even if he doesn't hold any now. His 
stomach had a nasty habit of playing tricks with 
him when he ran hard, but he set aside this nat- 
ural disability and always ran while he could 
keep his head up. 

Perhaps you’ve never heard of Hen Bearce? 
But you've surely heard of the Bearce boys from 
Edward Little High who kept their name before 
the public for ten years until Bruce graduated in 
1911. They came in just after the Davis regime 
broke up, and they sure did good service while 
they lasted. Are there any more at home like 
them, I wonder ? Send them along if there are ! 

Hen Bearce was one of that class of heroes 
who never can take the AA off their track suits. 
He had worked faithfully for two seasons, but 
he never developed into anything alarming as a 
runner. He could do a fair quarter and had 
always confined his training to that distance. 
But in the trials that year he failed to qualify 
for the quarter and he prepared to watch the 
afternoon events from the grandstand. Wyman 
and Lisherness both got into the final, so Maine 
had her share of men without Bearce in this 
event. 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


93 


But Steve Farrell never overlooked a bet. He 
had been watching St. Onge for a week and he 
was worried. The Spider wasn’t up to form; 
and that meant that his stomach was going bad, 
for nothing ever ailed that man’s head and legs. 
But St. Onge never whimpered, and he declared 
that he was as fit as ever, so Steve let him run. 
But to make it as easy as possible for the Spider, 
Steve started a man in that half who had been 
entered more for appearance’s sake than for any 
other reason. Hen Bearce had no more business 
in that half mile than Crab Smith has at a faculty 
meeting or a president’s reception. But he got 
his orders from Steve Farrell, and what Steve 
said was a law worth dying for. 

From the way the points stood when the half 
mile was called it was evident that Maine needed 
first place in that event in order to win the meet. 
Denning was winning all the weight events for 
Bowdoin, and Robinson and Shorey of Bowdoin 
were sure of first and second places in the two- 
mile. Shaw and Rogers would add eight points 
to the Maine total in the pole vault. But it was 
the result of the half mile that would give the 
scales the decisive tip. Hen Bearce held the 
balance that day — and he knew it. 


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When the announcer gave the second call for 
the half mile run Bearce sought out Steve Farrell 
and repeated his orders to make sure he had them 
right. He was to run the first quarter in as near 
fifty-eight seconds as he could, making pace and 
cutting wind, dragging the Bowdoin men off 
their feet all he was able. St. Onge was to fol- 
low well up, trailing the leaders and ready to 
take the lead himself when Bearce dropped out 
at the end of the first lap. It was well known 
that Everett, Bowdoin’s best man, was no judge 
of pace, and Steve hoped to eliminate him by 
running him off his feet in the first quarter. 
There was a bit of a breeze blowing against the 
runners on the back stretch, and it was no easy 
task for a man to lead a bunch around in fifty- 
eight; and especially was it difficult for an aver- 
age quarter-miler like Hen Bearce. But Lisher- 
ness and Wyman had run themselves out in the 
quarter and he was the only man left for the job. 

The runners drew lots for positions at the start 
and Bearce drew a poor place on the outside. 
He got a bad start and had to run around the 
whole field in order to win the lead on the turn. 
St. Onge got away well and was in his proper 
position on the back stretch. If ever a man did 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 95 

his work well, Hen Bearce did that day. The 
Bowdoin men were nervous and anxious, and 
they followed him at full speed like a flock of 
sheep; while the Spider ran easily behind the 
bunch that were unconsciously breaking wind and 
setting pace for him. 

Everett was at Bearce’s elbow when the run- 
ners crossed the line. Fifty-seven-three was the 
time, and the coach smiled as he slipped his watch 
in his pocket. The other Bowdoin men had seen 
their mistake and dropped back where the going 
was easier, fooled until the last minute by one 
of the simplest tricks of track athletics. Now 
was the time for the Spider! 

Hen Bearce crossed the line almost dead beat, 
giving thanks that now his work was over he 
could lie down and rest. His was a thankless 
task without honor, but he was satisfied in the 
knowledge of a work well done. Before he 
dropped out of the race he looked behind to make 
sure that St. Onge was coming up to take the 
lead. As he slowed down to look around the 
Bowdoin man passed him and took the lead. But 
what Bearce saw behind caused him to set his 
face to the front and run — run with the knowl- 
edge that the victory for Maine depended on him 


g6 TALES OF bolivar’s children 

alone — run when he wanted to fall down and 
die, when his lungs panted for one small breath 
of cool air, when the strength had gone from his 
legs and left him nothing to run with except 
sheer nerve and will-power. But he ran. 

For back on the track St. Onge was stagger- 
ing, both hands rubbing his stomach, doubled up 
with cramps at the very moment when the hopes 
of Maine depended on his speed and endurance. 
Steve Farrell gave an exclamation of pity, 
damned the luck in good forceful English, and 
started up the track to catch the Spider when he 
fell. And still Hen Bearce kept his feet. 

For once the student body knew the inside of 
athletic events. Even if the fellows hadn’t ap- 
preciated the trick, it was readily apparent to 
every one that Bearce was running on his nerve 
alone. They cheered him as was never a man 
cheered before, but he had no ears for their 
shouts. Every sense, every nerve he had, was 
concentrated on the one idea — not to let Everett 
leave him behind. There was no saving second 
wind for him to hope for. He was all in and no 
one knew it so well as he. He was running flat- 
footed, thus losing inches on every stride, but his 
legs had long since lost that spring which keeps 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


97 


one’s heels off the ground. The field was fast 
closing up on the leaders, and on the back stretch 
one little long-legged runner was eating up the 
distance, coming way back from the rear and 
being forced to run clear around the whole bunch 
of ‘‘also-rans.” He came around the turn run- 
ning in third place. He was at Bearce’s shoulder 
when Everett broke the tape. And then, while 
from the Maine section rose howling slogans to 
the name of Bearce and St. Onge, he seemed to 
slow down, and Hen Bearce crossed the line in 
second place. 

For Spider St. Onge was a good sport. 


FRACTIONAL FABRICATION 


Once in a while a fellow can slip something 
over on the faculty. Not very often, for the 
one haunting orgy 'of a professor’s existence is 
the fear that sometime a student will put a good 
one by him when he isn’t looking. Oh, these 
professors are a suspicious bunch. They keep to 
leeward with their ears near the ground, and 
anything that starts without them getting wise 
should have its beginning very early on a winter’s 
morning in the immediate vicinity of the North 
Pole; late at night won’t do. 

If you are planning to try and fool the faculty 
and lack the opportunity of going into the far 
north to do your plotting, you may need some 
advice from me. Get in your room between two 
and three o’clock A. M. Undress quickly in 
front of the closed window, pulling the shade at 
the crucial moment. Turn out the light, slam 
the door from the inside, and sit down quietly in 
the centre of the room. Under such conditions 
one may usually think without being overheard. 

Evolve your plan of procedure very carefully 
and memorize every detail. If any part of your 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


99 


plan is based upon your expectation that a pro- 
fessor will do a certain thing in a certain way, 
be sure to remember that he will probably do 
directly the opposite in an entirely different man- 
ner from that expected. 

After your plan is perfected you must be care- 
ful lest your appearance and conduct give you 
dead away. Don’t look too happy nor chum 
around with the professors; for you haven’t any 
right to be happy on the face of things and they’ll 
try to smell some ulterior motive. Don’t look 
too sober nor keep too far away; for that is a 
sure sign of some plot or conspiracy, and just as 
soon as the head of your plot shows above water 
the prof, will be there ready to take a crack at it. 
There is no exact standard that applies to the 
proper facial expression to assume and the cor- 
rect distance to keep away; they both vary with 
the degree of the professor’s affability. Use 
your judgment and stand ready to jump from 
under. I tell you now you’ll need a lot of 
luck — more than you dare to pray for. 

And remember this, too. It’s a dam sight 
easier to do the work than it is to fool the faculty 
into thinking you’re doing it. 

After reading this very encouraging and defi- 


lOO 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


nite code of instruction you need a little cheering 
up. So I frankly state as my opinion that the 
faculty have been fooled many times (or at least 
have given no indication of their knowledge of 
the plot against themselves). It gives me pleas- 
ure to recollect that I myself slipped something 
over on that venerable and august body on sev- 
eral occasions. I never made a practice of it 
though. And don’t you, either. For it’s one 
of those things that can’t be done without a 
make-up. 

But there’s lots of little things that don’t fool 
the profs. Now there’s that experiment of meas- 
uring the height of Wingate Hall up to the 
battlement of the bell tower. You and I know 
(and so does Jimmy Stevens) that the purchase 
of that aneroid barometer was a waste of the 
university’s good money. Since the day when 
the brilliant sophomore conceived the idea of 
measuring this height in the most accurate way, 
to wit : tying the barometer to a string, lowering 
it from the bell tower to the steps, and then meas- 
uring the string with a surveyor’s tape; since 
then no one has ever failed to find the exact 
height without reference to the aneroid reading. 
Any junior can tell you the correct result; but it 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


lOI 


is one of those little things that a fellow learns 
in physics which he soon forgets, and so I 
don't remember. You can find out easy enough. 
Jimmy Stevens expects you to, so don’t disap- 
point him so early in the game. You can pick 
a better man to have for an enemy. 

As I said, things like this don't fool anybody; 
so don't fool yourself into thinking that they do. 
It must have been twenty years ago when the 
English department received the last original 
idea in the standard book review on the “Scarlet 
Letter." (Poor misused book! No one ever 
believes what he writes about you.) When you 
write your theme try “Treasure Island" instead. 
A piratical yarn can stand pretty hard usage. 
It has to. 

Mike Mahoney always had a dozen schemes 
in his head for trimming the faculty. He seemed 
to be obsessed with the ambition to get credit for 
doing nothing. I spent hours of my valuable 
time in explaining to him why this and that 
scheme wouldn't work. I had to find some hole 
in the plan itself; for, strange to say, the ethical 
objections failed to appeal to Mike. But he got 
into one hole that he had to get out of, and the 
only way out was by fooling the faculty. It was 


102 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


my plan and I that did it. May Heaven pardon 
me for the sin! 

It was an accident that made me write this 
story. (And may Heaven forgive me for that 
too.) A page in an old notebook that I hap- 
pened to look at — a page covered with figures 
and fractions that seemed to give no result. Yet 
at the end was written in a triumphant scrawl 
the letters Q. E. D. And then I remembered. 
It was the record of my greatest coup d’etat, 
based on the Dean’s inability to add fractions. 
See what you think of it. 

* jK * 

‘‘Ted,” said Mike to me one evening in April, 
“I haven’t got my eligibility card yet. And 
say — do you know, I don’t believe I am eligible 
either.” 

That was enough to make me sit up. Mike 
was the best quarter-miler on the track team, and 
if he couldn’t run it was all over except the ob- 
sequies. We never had any points to spare in 
the state meet and we sure did need five in the 
quarter. It didn’t seem fair for Mike to go and 
get stuck when so much depended on him. 

“Why ain’t you eligible?” I snapped at him. 
“You didn’t get stuck in anything last fall, did 
you ?” 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


103 


“Oh, yes, I did. And so did you!” he re- 
minded me. “Didn’t we both get dropped from 
General Lectures because we cut to go to Old 
Town one afternoon? And ain’t you the one 
who told me to let General Lectures go to the 
devil? Now here I am stuck over five hours. 
And it’s up to you to get me out ; or else I can’t 
run this spring.” 

Now it was putting it pretty strong to blame 
me for making him cut that day when I didn’t 
do anything except tell him that there was free 
beer at the Club. Of course my getting dropped 
wasn’t of any consequence to Mike because I’m 
not an athlete. I hate this narrow-minded way 
of looking at things. But anyway I had to help 
Mike; so I took a notebook and pencil. “Let’s 
figure,” I said. “How many hours do you need 
to graduate? And when did you change your 
course ?” 

“I took engineering one semester and then 
shifted to the cinch course. Dunno how many 
hours I need to graduate. Never figured it up.” 

I looked him over scornfully. “You’re sure 
that you’re going to college, are you?” I asked. 

“Never was quite sure about that either,” he 
replied. “But when I got my eligibility card 


104 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


last Spring they told me that I was on the edge 
and that one more hour stuck would put me to 
the bad. Now I’m stuck that one hour, and I've 
only passed up thirty-one hours in the last two 
semesters. Reckon it up for me, will you?” 

I reckoned it. He needed 128 ^ hours to get 
his degree. He should have by this time passed 
up 112^ hours. Mike checked up on every sub- 
ject he had passed and he found only 107 hours. 
This left him 5^ hours behind his course and 
therefore ineligible to compete on the track team. 
A half an hour isn’t much in a hammock, but it’s 
an awful lot on a rank card in the college ofhce. 
Mike was stuck; and a million-mile detour 
wouldn’t take one around that fact. 

“Swearing won’t get you that hour, Mike,” 
I remonstrated. “Think, man, think ! Lord 
knows you’ve dug up enough schemes before.” 

“I went in to see the secretary this morning,” 
said he. “I was going to figure up my hours 
with her, but she’s gone until the last of the week. 
The girl told me to see the dean of my college, 
but I couldn’t find him, so I came home.” 

“The secretary’s gone, you say? And the 
assistant secretary can’t sign eligibility cards?” 
I asked. 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


105 


“Why, she said she’d sign mine if the Dean 
said it was all right. But you know how strict 
he is. If I was five points and a thousandth 
behind he’d never let me by; and here I am five 
and a half behind. No chance!” 

“The Dean’s the man we’ve got to get to — 
somehow.” I borrowed some tobacco and a 
match and lit my pipe. Through the clouds of 
smoke the plan evolved as I analysed the Dean’s 
habits and character. He had a mania for neat- 
ness, I knew. That might help; but neatness 
can’t make figures lie. Then it came to me — 
the Big Idea, based on the Dean’s only weak- 
ness — a weakness that I had noticed three times 
in the last two years. The Dean had figured in 
decimals so long that he had forgotten how to 
add fractions. 

“Mike,” I said to him, “I know you too well 
to ask you if you’ll take a chance; but this is a 
big one. If we win you’ll run in the state meet. 
If we lose — hon nuitl I can’t tell just what 
will happen if we lose. But are you game?” 

He grinned his own particular grin. “Go to 
it!” he ordered. “I’ll take what’s coming when 
it comes.” 

“Get out of here then,” I demanded. “And 


io6 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


keep every one else out until I'm through. I'll 
holler when I want you." 

When things were quiet I began to figure in 
earnest. I covered pages and pages of that note- 
book before I got what I wanted. But finally 
I smiled with satisfaction. Then I copied the 
result of my calculations on the typewriter in the 
acme of neatness. I yelled for Mike and he 
came on the run. 

‘Xook that over and sign it," I told him. He 
examined the paper, did some figuring himself, 
and then broke out in disgust. “I'll be damned 
if I sign it! Can't you add?" 

“Michael, dear, it's a case of Mamned if you 
do, damned if you don't.' Can I add? I, yes. 
But the Dean can't — not fractions." And I told 
him my plan. “I've been keeping you out of 
trouble for four years. Now I'm going to get 
you out of some more. Furthermore, to make 
it worth your while either way — win or lose — 
I'll bet you all the money I've got — four dol- 
lars — that it works. Are you game? And 
have you got the price?" He was and he had. 

Luck was with us, for Nature took a hand. 
The next day it rained. On rainy days the Dean 
had to catch the twelve-ten car or go without his 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


107 


dinner. I perfected the plot by letting Artie 
Atkins and Brownie Green in. Both these con- 
federates were in the Dean’s department and each 
had nerve enough to sink a ship. We were all 
so wrapped up in the plot that we each got stuck 
in all the morning classes; but that was nothing 
uncommon and no one suspected that the state 
meet was trembling in the balance on the knees 
of the gods. At twelve sharp we met in front 
of the hall where the Dean had his office. 

Mike took a long breath that was a prayer in 
itself and went in. The Dean was putting on 
his overcoat when Mike nailed him. “Have you 
a minute to spare, sir?” asked Mike respectfully. 

The Dean glanced at his watch. “Five min- 
utes, Mahoney. What can I do for you?” 

“A matter of eligibility, sir,” replied Mike. 
“The secretary is gone, you know, and the assist- 
ant referred me to you. I have prepared a state- 
ment of my credits which you may look at.” 
And he placed a sheet of paper on the desk which 
read as follows: 

Statement of the Credits of M. S. Mahoney. 

Changed from Engineering course in spring sem- 
ester of freshman year. Now passed 107 hours 
credited. 


io8 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


150 8 =: 18^ hrs. req. per semester Engineering. 

125-^8=15^ “ “ “ “ this dep’t. 

Engineering (i) 18^ hrs. 

(1) 15^8 “ 

(2) 15^ “ 

(3) 15^8 “ 

This dep’t. (4) 15^8 “ 

( 5 ) 15^8 “ 

(6) 15^ “ 

( 7 ) 15^8 “ 


127^ hrs. req. for degree. 

127^ — 1554 = III/4 hrs. req. for 7 semesters. 

107 “ now credited. 

4^ hrs. now behind course. 
(perforated line) 

As Dean of this department and during the tem- 
porary absence of the secretary of the university, 
I have examined M. S. Mahoney’s record, and I 
find him eligible to compete on the athletic teams 
of the university under the eligibility rule now in 
force. 

Signed, 

Dean. 

The Dean examined the paper carefully. “Ah, 
very neat, Mahoney ! And doubtless correct. 
However, I have not your rank card at hand and 
so have only your own assurance that you have 
been credited with the number of hours which 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


109 


you State — one hundred and seven. I shall of 
course have to look that up.” 

Mike reached in his pocket and pulled out 
Exhibit B for the defense — a signed statement 
from the assistant secretary to the effect that 
Mr. Mahoney had received credit for one hun- 
dred and seven hours passed. We hadn’t for- 
gotten anything. 

“Ah, yes,” said the Dean. “That of course 
covers it. But your method of calculation, 
though clear and comprehensive, is a trifle labo- 
rious. Now I have a simpler method — much 
easier.” And he took up a pad and pencil to 
demonstrate. 

Truly a tragic moment! Mike never batted 
an eye. The Dean looked up and smiled as 
Atkins, Green and I entered the office. “Ah, 
gentlemen! Trouble again? Ah, merely after 
your mid-term ranks. A trifle worried perhaps ? 
No need, no need. You are all above, I believe. 
My time is short now.” (His watch registered 
twelve-seven and it was raining harder than 
ever.) “Come in and see me later. Mahoney, 
I have no doubt you are all right. You wanted 
me to sign your paper ? Ah, yes ! Glad to, glad 
to! I must commend you for your neatness.” 


no 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


Mike had his fountain pen ready. He was 
looking eager — too eager, I thought; but the 
Dean never noticed. He took the pen and dashed 
off his name, pulled on his coat and locked the 
office door. The worthy Dean lost some of his 
dignity in his run down the walk — but he caught 
the car and got his dinner on time. 

And in the meantime Mike did a quick dash 
for Alumni and caught the assistant just closing 
the office. He tore the precious sheet along the 
perforated line and handed her the Dean's signed 
statement of his eligibility, putting the mad 
mathematics part in his pocket. She signed the 
card that made him happy and Mike came out 
to us, waiting for him in the rain. We walked 
home in the wet and missed our dinner. 

And behind us on the car track were scattered 
many very tiny bits of paper, the only damning 
evidence of the long chance that we took. We 
were wet and muddy when we got home that 
noon — Bismallah ? What's a walk in the rain 
compared to five points in the quarter-mile? 


WHO^S A PIKER? 


Now, Kit, just what is your idea of a good 
sport, anyway? Is it the fellow who bets all his 
money on a sure thing? Is it the guy who puts 
up half his cash on an even chance ? Or perhaps 
you think the fellow who backs the weak side 
against odds and as a matter of college principle 
is the best sport of the three? It’s a matter of 
opinion, I tell you — nothing else. And it’s a 
heap better that it should be so; for if the ques- 
tion should ever be decided, then conceit would 
become a material thing, and as such, subject to 
the law of gravitation. And great would be the 
fall thereof, for many heads would lose their 
crowns of glory. You don’t get me? That is 
to say, it is your desire that I elucidate. Well, 
I’m not going to try to beat any fine points into 
your head, so you may as well forget it. 

Kit, you claim that Gramp Welsh was a 
piker. I know we used to call him that when 
we were in college; but now I question our right 
to call him anything. Gramp sure did keep a 
strangle-hold on his pocketbook, and to him fifty- 


II2 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


one cents were always ‘‘almost a dollar.” He 
never went to Bangor — not even on Saturday 
nights — and in Old Town the Club and the 
New Central knew him not. He missed three 
special trains and one championship celebration, 
which would be criminal for you and I. But no 
talk of “college spirit” could ever slip the elastic 
band from around that wallet of Cramp's. 

The trouble was that Cramp Welsh was short 
of money. There was no one furnishing the 
cash for him to waste. He'd worked for three 
years before he entered college and he started 
his freshman year with just nine hundred dollars 
and no prospects. He worked for his education ; 
you and I didn't. 

Cramp knew when he started that this nine 
hundred was the whole of it. He had bids from 
three frats that I know of, but he refused them 
all because he couldn't afford the added expense. 
He was frank enough about it — came right out 
and said that he'd worked three years to get an 
education, and now that he was there he was 
going to study. That was what he went for. 
Contrast: You and I. If the boys wanted to 
call him a miser and a grind — well, he'd have 
to stand for it. 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN II3 

There never was a better fellow than Gramp 
Welsh, and he made a lot of friends around col- 
lege. He’d lay off plugging any time to help 
another bonehead out, and he wasn’t exactly 
what you’d call a shark either. But the boys 
never quite realized how hard up Gramp was, 
and he never shook off the nickname of ^‘Piker.” 
No one ever called him that to his face, any more 
than they call Smith “The Crab” in the coach’s 
immediate vicinity. The fellows thought that 
Gramp was a little too close with his money. 
And I thought so too until one day when he told 
me just how he was fixed. 

It happened like this. I was loafing out the 
summer’s vacation and was trying to make some 
of the days go quicker by taking a motor boat 
cruise along the coast. I ran into Rockland one 
night just as one of the steamers tied up at the 
wharf, and coming alongside, I heard a familiar 
hail from above and looked up. Gramp Welsh 
was hanging over the bars in the off-shore gang- 
way, tickled to death to see some one from the 
old college. “Stick around half an hour till we 
get this freight ashore and I’ll be with you,” he 
shouted. 

I climbed up on the wharf and watched them 


1 14 TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 

unload. Finally Gramp joined me and we went 
up town to supper. He paid, which was fortu- 
nate, for I was on my way home, and, of course, 
broke. In the evening we went out for a run in 
my boat. The talk up to this tim6 had been 
mostly about football prospects, the size of the 
entering class, and a few reminiscences of class- 
room and campus thrown in. After a while I 
asked Gramp about his job. “What freak of 
Fate ever landed you on that steamer? You 
must get about twenty a month and nothing 
extra for backache.” 

“I couldn’t get anything else to do,” he replied 
soberly. “I had a job landed in a hotel and was 
counting on that for the summer. There was 
good money in it too, but it fell through at the 
last minute and left me looking for work after 
all the good positions had been filled.” 

“And say, Ted,” he continued, “I’m going to 
have to go some if I get through college on what 
money I’ve got. I won’t save over forty dollars 
this summer, and that leaves me only about three 
hundred and fifty for the next two years. I want 
to graduate with my class, but I can’t see it now. 
Losing that hotel job queered me.” 

He seemed to find so little pleasure in these 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN II5 

reflections that I tried to change the subject. I 
rambled on for half an hour telling stories of 
good times I had had in college, heedless of the 
fact that such tales would only serve to augment 
the burden of Gramp’s woe. Just as we landed 
at the float I was telling the story of how Bob 
Parris and I the year before had cleaned up two 
hundred dollars on the Colby-Maine football 
game, and what a peach of a time we had spend- 
ing it. I finished the yarn on the way uptown. 

We stopped in front of the hotel. “Good- 
night, Gramp. See you next month.” 

“No. I won’t be back until October. I’m 
going to finish the month on the boat. Remem- 
ber me to any of the boys.” 

We shook hands. He turned, hesitated, and 
came back. “Ted, if I want to bet on the Colby 
game this fall, will you place the money for me ?” 

The surprise nearly knocked me off my feet, 
for Gramp had just told me that he didn’t have 
any spare money to bet that a toothpick would 
go through a smaller hole than a match. He 
flushed when he noticed my expression. “Will 
you?” he insisted. 

“Why, of course, Gramp.” And with this 
assurance he was gone. 


Il6 TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 

I didn’t see Gramp Welsh again until the 
middle of October. He showed up in Mechanics 
class one morning and demonstrated a problem 
with all his old-time skill, much to the disgust 
of Prof. Shears, who always delighted in stick- 
ing those students most beloved of him. For 
the faculty never thought of Gramp as a piker. 
To them he was a conscientious student and a 
probable candidate for Phi Kappa Phi. Also 
they considered him a worthy example for some 
of us to copy after ; all of which goes to illustrate 
the difference between the faculty and student 
point of view. 

Gramp came to me after chapel. “The foot- 
ball team isn’t showing up very well,” he de- 
clared, thereby stating a fact that we were all 
trying not to worry about. 

“They made Harvard go some,” I objected, 
being more of an optimist. 

“Can we trim Bates next Saturday?” asked 
Gramp anxiously. 

“There’s things in this world which are not 
subject to prophecy,” I replied. “And one of 
them is the Bates-Maine football game. Judg- 
ing by comparative scores we’ll beat Bates 30 
to o. But judging by the past it’ll probably be 
a tie score.” 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN II7 

“Then you wouldn’t bet on the Bates game?” 

“Bet on it! Why, Gramp, you couldn’t sep- 
arate those guys from their money with a bur- 
glar’s outfit. Don’t you know that betting is 
naughty and that one side is sure to lose? Be- 
sides, gambling detracts from the ideal function 
of athletics as a college activity. Bates wouldn’t 
even risk a cent on a sure thing for fear that the 
stakeholder would abscond with their money. 
No, I guess we won’t bet much on the Bates 
game. So far I’ve managed to bet one cigar 
and two boxes of cigarettes.” 

As I passed in the gate at the game that Satur- 
day I saw a lonesome figure standing near the 
ticket office where the betting commissioners were 
accustomed to lie in wait when there was any 
chance to look at real money. Gramp Welsh was 
holding forth alone. We trimmed Bates 15 to 
6, while old Bolivar looked on and was content. 
Gramp won ten dollars — or thought he had ; 
but he put cash up against a check and the paper 
was protested very promptly. A man has to 
learn, whether he wants to or not. 

Once again winners, we became confident. 
Why, sure we could beat Colby. The score? 
Oh, about 20 to o. There was more than wind 


Il8 TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 

behind this talk, too. You never heard legal 
tender talk in more comprehensive tones than 
Maine money did that week. We heard that 
there was a big bunch of cash coming up with 
the Colby team and we decided just how we 
would spend it. 

Gramp Welsh came to me Thursday night and 
placed a sheaf of bills on my desk. It was a 
pleasant sight, that pile, and I ran my fingers 
through the green and gold fastnesses as a girl 
plays with a fellow’s curly hair. It’s something 
to feel of a fortune even if you can’t find one 
for yourself. “Why this unseemly display of 
wealth, Gramp?” I asked. 

“It’s the money I want to bet on Maine against 
Colby,” he explained. “Don’t you remember in 
Rockland last summer you promised you’d bet 
some for me? Do you think you can place the 
whole of it ? There’s three hundred dollars 
there.” 

“Why, I guess I did tell you that. But from 
what you told me then, this must be about every 
cent you’ve got in the world. Don’t make a 
fool of yourself. This football game is no sure 
thing, you know. They say that Colby’s giving 
odds of three to two.” 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN II9 

“It’s like this, Ted,” he replied, glancing 
around to make sure that we were alone in the 
room. “I haven’t got money enough to stay and 
graduate with our class. I can just about finish 
this year with what I’ve got. If I double my 
money on this game, I stay. If I lose I beat it 
now and go to work. I want my last two years 
in college to come together. Besides, it’s my 
money I’m betting and I earned every cent of it. 
The old man has to stand for it if you lose. 
Isn’t that so?” I shuddered to think of what 
would happen if I did lose. 

“Why not put it up yourself, Gramp ? I guess 
I can place it all right. But if I handle it I shall 
bet as I please, and you may not like the way 
I do.” 

“I want you to bet it just like you do your 
own, of course. Remember now, you promised. 
I know just what I’m doing and I want to bet 
every cent of that three hundred.” 

And this was Piker Welsh! I looked at him 
with a new respect. He was risking all his 
money, that stood for a year in college and a 
year’s savings at hard work, backing his college 
on what was as far from being a sure thing as 
Veazie is from being a metropolis. Why, he 


120 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


was putting us so-called sports so far in the 
shade that we could never get back in the sun- 
light in a thousand years. I never felt so small 
and insignificant in my life. It wasn’t a favor 
to Gramp for me to place that money; it was an 
honor to me that he should let me do it. 

There were four of us at the gate that Satur- 
day with the Maine money. The college marched 
by us through the gate with the band in the lead. 
There was no criticism from the passing line of 
students because we four weren’t in the parade. 
Every one knew what we were there for, our- 
selves most of all. 

The Colby representatives arrived in good sea- 
son with the Waterville wad. There wasn’t so 
much in it as we had been led to expect and it 
was plain in a minute that our combined capital 
would more than cover it. The others were 
fighting to find out who should be left out in the 
betting, when some one started to push by me 
into the group. ‘Ts there any Maine money 
here?” asked a voice. 

Say, I kidnapped that guy so quick that he 
forgot he ever had his liberty. Out back of the 
grandstand we came to terms. I was intending 
to hold out for the short end of three to two, but 


TALES OF bolivar's CHILDREN 


I2I 


I never got a chance to even voice my sentiments. 
He made his proposition and I didn't lose any 
time in taking him up for fear he'd relent. I 
hate to slander any one; but I'm almost certain 
that the man had been drinking. But if he had, 
he didn't deserve any pity nor consideration. 
When the money was up I stopped to breathe — 
not before. 

I found Gramp Welsh among the tobacco 
chewers on the top row of bleachers. ‘‘All right, 
Ted?" he asked anxiously when I had reached 
his side. And I, not wishing to excite the jeal- 
ousy of the bunch by going into details, replied 
with a grin, “Right as rain, Gramp!" Then the 
whistle blew. 

You saw that game, didn't you? So I won't 
go over that again. It was the hardest contested 
battle that Alumni field ever saw in our time. 
Colby fought their way to a touchdown in the 
first half; and in the same half the Maine team 
won their way across the gray and blue goal line. 
Colby scored first, but the Maine cheering re- 
sounded with faith and confidence. And when 
we tied the score 6 to 6 the cheering section went 
wild in a mad wave of enthusiasm. In the tur- 
moil I fell down on to the cinder track, and when 


122 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


I got Up Gramp had disappeared. After the first 
half I made for the Delta Gamma house and 
when I came back there was a suspicious bulge 
in my hip pocket. Not guilty, Your Honor! 

In the last half they got to us. No one with 
any semblance of brains will ever question the 
fact that Colby had far the better team. But 
when they gained a foot they earned it. Twice 
they scored in this half, battering their way 
through a line that never flinched from the 
attack, making first down by inches. Out- 
weighed, out-played, and out-punted, surpassed 
in every phase of the game except gameness, still 
the Maine team fought, yielding by inches when 
it was futile to resist. Behind that team was the 
whole student body, carried away at the sight of 
the fight their team was making, glorying in its 
gameness with a deeper respect and honor than 
we accord to a victorious eleven. And in the 
midst of it all I spied Gramp Welsh above me, 
cheering louder than the rest, seemingly content 
in knowing that those heroes on the field were 
of his friends and college, and heedless of the 
fact that every cent he had in the world had been 
staked on a losing team. I smiled as I thought 
of the surprises that come to mortals occasion- 
ally. 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


123 


You can give Colby the credit. She sure had 
the “Goods” and she had to use them both. 
Maine never had any right to win that game, 
and our team did all their work in keeping the 
score down where it was — 17 to 6. 

Sam Foster and I walked out together and we 
ran across a couple of girls he knew. It was 
almost seven o’clock when I went to the dormi- 
tory to find Gramp. He was packing his trunk 
when I burst in all out of breath. Gramp looked 
up with a smile. “Well, we lost, Ted.” He 
made no mention of his lost three hundred, but 
rather, he observed proudly: “The team showed 
the old fight today all right.” How’s that for 
a good loser? 

I advanced upon Gramp’s trunk with premedi- 
tated malice. The first kick smashed the lid 
down, and another boot and a heave put the 
trunk out of sight in the bedroom. Mounting 
the desk, I turned to address the perplexed Mr. 
Welsh; and thus I spake: 

“My boy, your demeanor does you credit. 
You’re the best sport I ever knew. Cease to 
worry about your old trunk, for you won’t need 
it until Thanksgiving. You are a gentleman, a 
scholar, and a wicked and bloated plutocart.” 


124 


TALES OF bolivar’s CHILDREN 


Whereupon I reached into my swollen hip pocket, 
produced a roll that would stop a financial panic, 
and hove the biggest six hundred dollars you 
ever saw straight at Gramp Welsh’s head. He 
sat spellbound while the autumn breeze scattered 
the precious paper around the room. I jumped 
down from the desk and gathered the bills up in 
the waste paper basket. 

“B-but we lost,” stammered Gramp, coming to 
his senses. 

‘‘I will explain,” I promised. “We two are 
the only happy men in college tonight. The 
others all bet on Maine to win. Little wise guy 
Teddy bet on Maine to score — and we scored, 
as I remember it. I collected the money after 
the first half, but I couldn’t find you after that. 
We’ll take our diplomas together, Gramp.” 

Some instinctive mental telepathy must have 
passed between us. Without a word Gramp 
reached for his hat and we left the room. Still 
silent, we walked down the path by the Delta 
Gamma house, and stopped at the waiting-room 
just as the car for Old Town hove in sight. 



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